


Stumble and Fall

by Kitmistry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Cold War, Destiel Harlequin Challenge (Supernatural), Drinking Games, Drunk Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Russian Castiel (Supernatural), Spy Castiel (Supernatural), Suspense, U.S. Marshal Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25481824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitmistry/pseuds/Kitmistry
Summary: Castiel was raised to do one thing: serve his country, whether that was fighting a war or becoming an expert spy. But when his lover is charged with treason and executed Castiel defects. He has evidence that can destroy the KGB’s entire spy ring in New Mexico, he has names of scientists involved with atomic weapons who send information to the Soviets, and he won’t stop until he has revenge.Putting all his trust in the Americans, Castiel finds himself under the protection of U.S. Marshal Dean Winchester, who is too cocky and attractive for his own good, but at least seems to know what he’s doing.When a routine transfer to a safehouse goes horribly wrong, Castiel and Dean narrowly escape with their lives. With the Marshals compromised and Castiel being framed for murder, he and Dean are on the run from KGB and law enforcement alike. They have no one to trust except each other, and nowhere to go that their enemies can’t reach.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Inias (Supernatural)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 274
Collections: Destiel Harlequin Challenge 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [ Destiel Harlequin Challenge ](https://destielharlequinchallenge.tumblr.com/) 2020
> 
> I can't believe it's time to post this. This has been a difficult year (for most of us I'm sure) and finding the time and/or energy to write has been challenging. Honestly this story wouldn't have been finished without the help of several people. Special thanks to [ Deancebra ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deancebra/pseuds/Deancebra) and of course [ theimportanceofbeingvictoria ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimportanceofbeingvictoria/pseuds/theimportanceofbeingvictoria), as well as everyone at the [ profoundbond discord ](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) for answering my questions.
> 
> A huge shout-out to our lovely mods for hosting this challenge. You guys rock!

_April 1952_

The first hint of light sneaks through the curtains to shed a golden path across the scratched floor of Castiel’s bedroom. He can see it stretching before him as he lowers himself until his nose almost touches the floor.

 _Forty-eight,_ he counts in his head. 

He pushes back up, back flat, stomach sucked in. The muscles of his arms are screaming, his whole torso feels like it’s on fire, and Castiel pushes through the pain. 

_Forty-nine._

Sweat beads at his hairline, a drop slides down his nose.

_Fifty._

With a shaky exhale, he drops to his knees, pants clinging to his lower back, hair sticking to his forehead. A quick check of his watch reveals he’s gone through his routine quickly today. The exercises have become easier after so many months of repeating them. He’ll have to change it up soon to make them more challenging, or risk becoming too comfortable. Staying alert and prepared is important in his line of work. 

By the time he’s finished with his shower and dressed, the sun is steadily climbing up the sky, its rays chasing away the last of the night chill. His suit jacket will be too warm to keep on in a few hours, but for now it’ll do. Castiel steps out, a bottle of milk in his hand, and watches as Santa Fe groggily wakes up. 

A black cat appears through the bushes hugging his porch and runs up to him without hesitation. She winds through his legs, rubbing her head against his calf, eyes half-closed. She arches her back to press into his fingers when he crouches by her side to pet her, mewling the whole time. 

The beginning of a smile tugs at Castiel’s lips, and hidden as he is behind the low stucco wall with the soft rounded corners that marks the edges of his property, he allows himself to whisper, “доброе утро.”

_Good morning._

She blinks up at him, and he figures it’s as good a good morning as he’s going to get out of her. He fills her bowl by the door with milk and watches as she digs in right away.

“Emmanuel! Hey, good morning!” Castiel’s neighbor is still in his pajamas, a fluffy robe doing little to hide his round belly, and he waves in Castiel’s direction, rosy cheeked and cheery. “Ready to go out already?”

Castiel smiles back at him, mentally shrugging on his good American citizen persona as he stands back up to greet the man. “Good morning to you, too, Mr. Wilson. The weather is beautiful today. It’d be a shame to spend even a second more than I have to at home.”

Not even a hint of an accent. Castiel would be proud, if he didn’t tirelessly work on that before moving here. 

Mr. Wilson laughs, a whole body thing that makes his belly bounce. “You artists and your love for nature. Well, gotta get ready for work. I’ll see you some other time, Emmanuel. Have a good day.”

“You, too, Mr. Wilson,” Castiel calls, raising a hand in a half-hearted attempt at waving at him. 

Mr. Wilson’s front door closes, and Castiel’s smile slips off his face. The worst part of his job—his real job, not the painting he took up as a hobby and which now serves as his cover—is talking with idiots like Mr. Wilson. 

The cat comes to sit next to him, licking a paw, and narrows her eyes at the house next door. She looks like she agrees with him. 

“Alright, then,” Castiel tells her, voice low, and opens the door of his house to grab the oversized bag and easel box waiting for him behind it. “Time to get the day started. I’ll see you for dinner.”

The cat walks him to the fence gate, then jumps on the low wall, from where she has easy access to the beams protruding from the facade of the house. Another leap, and she disappears on the flat roof, probably off to find a good spot in the sun for a nap. 

Castiel, easel box in hand, bag heavy with painting tools hanging from his shoulder, walks down the dirt road that will take him to the main plaza, then keeps walking, past the Cathedral, and past the low houses with the tan walls and white windows. The town stretches along the foothill of the mountain, all curved lines and smooth edges, seemingly formed out of the earth itself, sculpted and molded by the dry wind without a human hand to help. It’s almost humble in a way. Cute. Nothing like the imposing, grey buildings Castiel was surrounded by back home. 

The diner he has breakfast at every morning is a glaring disparity, a tiny monstrosity of loud colors and lights, sharp corners and greasy fries. It also has the only acceptable coffee Castiel has found around here, and it sits right on the road that leads up to the mountain. Perfect location for his purpose.

Castiel takes the booth by the window, nursing his coffee. Some of the other patrons recognize him and nod in his direction instead of a greeting. The waitress that comes and goes smiles at him and asks him if he made any progress since she last saw him yesterday, and Castiel is polite but withdrawn. He’s somebody here, or at least, _Emmanuel Allen_ is somebody here—an artist, a quirky loner, a regular, a neighbor. He’s a grey man, a background character to everyone else’s life movie, and he’s content to stay like that. It’s much more attention than _just-one-more-of-the-many_ he used to be, but it’s important for his work. 

Cars come and go, and Castiel watches them. A truck comes from the direction of the hill, parks in front of the diner, and a man in a red shirt walks inside. He doesn’t look in Castiel’s direction at all while he claims a booth across the room and orders coffee, but the signal is loud and clear. Castiel waits a few minutes, then waves the waitress over to pay for his breakfast. Tipping his hat in her direction as he leaves, he starts the short walk up the hill, where there’s a flat area with a perfect view of the town. Once there, he takes a moment to breathe in the clean air, grounding himself. 

Time for work. 

With swift and practiced movements, he opens his briefcase and sets up his tools—a folding easel, situated with the gleaming terracotta tiled-roofs right behind it, a blank canvas waiting for him to fill, his colors and paint brushes organized inside his bag and close to the rock he uses instead of a chair. 

Perfect.

With everything ready and waiting for him to create another earth-toned, vaguely generic landscape for one of the galleries on Canyon Road, Castiel turns his attention to what really brought him here. 

The pile of rocks he focuses his attention on looks, as always, as if it’s been created by a random rockfall, but Castiel knows better. He trails his fingers over the rough texture, circling the pile, until he finds what he’s looking for. A small X mark, etched with chalk into a discreet corner of a stone that can easily be removed. From under it, he retrieves a sealed envelope, which he stashes in his bag, among his rough sketches. 

That done, he takes his seat on the rock, chooses a large, stiff brush and a light blue color, and starts painting. He loses himself in the repetitiveness of putting brush to canvas, of glancing at the town then back to where his short, thick lines create the rough shapes of houses, trees, windows, rozy sunlight and crimson shadows. Time loses all meaning until the shadows of the houses become too long, the light dims, and his stomach complains. By then, his whole body is stiff, and the walk back to his house can’t end soon enough. 

The cat is waiting for him when he finally makes it back. She meowls insistently, demanding food, but Castiel has some things to take care of first. 

He grabs his mail from the mail box and heads inside, intent on being quick with his task so he can find something to eat. He takes a quick look through the letters and finds two things that need his immediate attention: a postcard from his deceased mother, and a letter with Inias’ home address written on it. 

His heart picks up, as it always does when Castiel thinks of Inias, his mind flooding with memories of their stolen moments together that he usually finds too distracting to allow himself to think about. 

The postcard should go first, it really should, it’s his job after all, but his hands are itching to open the letter instead, his whole body yearns to have even this small contact with his lover. Letters from Inias are few and far between. Postcards and messages from his contact posing as his mother are a weekly thing on the other hand. And a rather boring one at that, if he’s being honest. Well, if Castiel indulges this one time, no one will know. 

He tears through the envelope with eager fingers, only for the smile to die on his lips as he reads the first line. 

_Dear Castiel,_ _  
_ _It is with heavy heart that I have to inform you of my brother, Inias’—_

He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply through the nose. The frantic heartbeat behind his ribs doesn’t stop even when he finds the courage to read the rest of it. The words blur together, but the meaning is clear. 

Inias is dead. 

Hannah’s words are carefully selected and measured as she explains in her letter how her brother was detained, charged with treason and conspiring against the state, and then, finally, given the Supreme Degree of Punishment during a hurried trial his family wasn’t allowed to attend. What she doesn’t write, but Castiel can read between her shaky lines, is that it was all bullshit. 

The letter drops to the floor. 

Castiel presses a fist to his mouth, a poor barrier against the bile that is rushing up his throat. Hunched over the table of his cramped kitchen, teeth biting into his palm, he squeezes his eyes shut, tries to block the outside world and with it the rush of grief that washes over him in unrelenting waves. 

Inias is dead, and somehow, unforgivingly, Castiel’s supposed to shrug the news off and go back to his work like nothing happened. He’s supposed to bow his head like the good soldier he is and accept his fate. The world crumbles around him, piece by piece, memory by memory. The distance between Santa Fe and Moscow has never been greater. Or lonelier. 

His country, his _family,_ has betrayed him in the worst way. Castiel aches and burns, and wants the world to burn along with him. No. Not the world. _Them_ . He wants _them_ to burn. And he knows just the way to take them down in the worst way possible.

In one unexpected moment of self-control, Castiel straightens up and forces his breathing to even out. He is in command of his feelings and his thoughts. He’s _not_ going to break down.

What he is going to do is leave work for later. Leave the postcard waiting on the table while he prepares a dinner he already knows will taste like ash and won’t be good enough for his stomach, clenched to the point of pain as it is. What he is going to do is take the plate he prepares and go sit cross-legged on the floor of his porch, plate precariously balanced between his thighs as the cat tries to steal a bite. 

It’s a sweet night, cloud-free and silent. The smoke from his cigarette floats away in loose curls. 

Castiel scratches a spot behind the cat’s ear, and she purrs into his palm. 

“You know what?” he tells her, thoughtful eyes turning up to stare at the star-filled sky; it’s a different view from back home. “I think I have a plan.”

* * *

It takes him a year. 

Castiel gathers his broken pieces and glues them back together through sheer determination and stubbornness alone. He shows up to work every single day without fail, sends the coded messages back to Moscow on time and keeps his head low. He goes through the motions, and when the time has come, he bets everything he has on a single letter. He’s not sure it’s going to get through, but it’s the best lead he has for now. 

Then he waits.

Three months after he’s sent the letter, and just as he’s beginning to think that he needs to come up with a plan B, something changes. Castiel’s rigid routine is interrupted by an unknown man who slides into the seat across from Castiel while he’s having breakfast at the usual diner. 

“Mr. Allen?” the man asks, tone casual, lips quirking under his white mustache. 

Castiel’s muscles go stiff, but he forces himself to swallow his bite of pancakes. A quick glance around the room reveals that aside from the usual customers—all of whom Castiel is sure are civilians—two or three unknown men are scattered through the morning crowd. They’re nondescript, dressed in casual shirts and baggy suit jackets, perfect for concealing guns. The man Castiel is waiting for everyday, though, the one driving down from the hill in his beat-up truck is not here yet. So Castiel allows himself to nod.

“I’m Clive Dylan. I work for the Edison Fine Art Gallery in Chicago,” the man says, pushing a simple white card on the table. “We’ve seen some of your paintings and we’re interested in including a few of them in one of our upcoming showcases.” 

“You’ve travelled awfully far for someone as unknown as me,” Castiel observers, meeting Dylan’s unwavering gaze. “You could have sent a letter.”

“But I want to see your studio,” Dylan says, flashing his wolfish grin again; it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’d have to come out here eventually to take a closer look at your paintings, so I figured why not just save some time and skip the letters entirely.”

One of his brows quirks slightly as he says the word ‘letters’, the movement almost imperceptible to a normal person. Castiel is not normal, though.

“Very well,” Castiel says, plastering on a smile as fake as Dylan’s. He takes a notebook out of his bag and tears a page out of it, before quickly scribbling an address on it. “This is the studio I’m currently working with. It’s located on Canyon Road; should be fairly easy to find. Meet me there, and I’ll show you all the paintings that I have in my possession right now.”

Dylan tilts his head to the side as he inspects the piece of paper. He raises his chin a bit, finding Castiel’s eyes again and holding them. “Very well, Mr. Allen. I’ll meet you there. Should we say six in the evening? Or is that too early?”

“No, it’s fine,” Castiel says. “Only thing on my schedule is painting, and that I can cut short today.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then,” Dylan says, and with a firm handshake that almost breaks Castiel’s fingers he slides out of the booth and walks out of the diner. 

Castiel can’t see where Dylan goes after he leaves, but the men he noticed earlier make no move to follow him. They remain in the diner, seemingly unaware of the conversation that took place just a few feet away from them. 

Castiel’s fingers start tingling, enough that he has to consciously stop himself from fidgeting. This is what he’s been waiting for this whole time, he’s sure of it. 

* * *

Dylan is not alone when he appears in front of the studio where Castiel is waiting for him, and more importantly, the unknown man is not one of those who were shadowing Dylan earlier. 

Castiel shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Trusting Dylan is already a big enough risk on its own, and another stranger is not good news. He’s made it this far already, however, and he’s not about to step down. It’s a dangerous game he’s playing, and now it’s just the moment where he has to step up and run straight through the fire to the other side, or be consumed by the flames.

“Mr. Allen,” Dylan greets. He gestures to his companion. “This is my colleague, Dean Winchester. I don’t think you’ve met before.”

“No, we haven’t,” Castiel mutters as Dylan’s ‘colleague’ tips his hat in greeting. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Allen,” Dean says and offers his hand, flashing a toothy grin that makes his green eyes crinkle at the corners.

Castiel takes it, sizing him up—he’s a few inches taller, freckled, and he looks quite fit, even though he’s wearing a suit that hides the exact breadth of his shoulders and his arms. Attractive in a way Castiel doesn’t need right now. His hold on Castiel is firm, his gaze unwavering as he stares straight back without hesitation. Dean Winchester is too confident for Castiel’s liking, and his stomach quivers in response. It’s too late to back out now, however. He’s been prepared to hand his life over to the Americans, and however nerve-wracking the first step is, Castiel will do it. For Inias. 

“Come with me,” Castiel says, straight-spined and tense, though he does his damndest to hide it. “We can use the backdoor to go to the storeroom. Most of my completed paintings are there.”

And the storeroom has the unique advantage of being empty most of the time. The owner of the gallery is usually at the entrance, where he can keep an eye on the visitors arriving and leaving, which means that when Castiel closes the backdoor behind him, he, Dylan and Dean have all the privacy they need, and they can all finally remove their masks. 

Dean wanders around the room examining a couple of the paintings waiting there to be put up for viewing at a later date. Dylan, on the other hand, seems more interested to get this whole thing going. He leans against the table that is pushed against the only empty wall, and crosses his arms over his chest, any hint of friendliness gone from his face. “Is this room secure?”

“As secure as one can find around here,” Castiel replies. The only truly safe place in town is his own house, but that stops being true the moment he takes them there. For now, a semi-public space, one where Castiel feels like he still has some control over this situation, will have to do.

“So, Mr. Allen,” Dylan says, drawing the words out. “I guess you know why we’re here. In your letter you said you have something for us.”

“Very bold of you to send a letter straight to the CIA headquarters,” Dean observes, his back turned to them as he leans to inspect a painting of an olive tree from up close. 

“I like to think of it as efficient. It got your attention, didn’t it?” Castiel says, shooting daggers at Dean’s back. He could at least pretend to be interested in this discussion, since Castiel’s life literally depends on it.

“The documents,” Dylan interrupts them. “Do you have them?”

Castiel drags his eyes away from Dean’s broad frame—ignoring the way Dean gazes back at him over his shoulder, a playful glint in his eye—and focuses back on Dylan. “They are somewhere safe, but I can get them for you. Provided you agree to my terms.”

A muscle twitches under Dylan’s jaw, though his expression remains carefully schooled. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here, actually. I want to discuss your ‘terms’.”

Castiel blinks. He thought he was very clear in his letter, so really there’s nothing for them to discuss. Either Dylan accepts them, or he can fuck off back to where he came from. What that would mean for Castiel is up for debate, but for now, it’s not important.

“We want you to continue your work but under our instructions. You’d be a double agent, feeding the KGB the information we’ll be giving you.”

“No,” Castiel says flatly. There is no way he is spending a second longer than he has to working for the KGB. He’s already waited long enough. 

Dylan shakes his head, before exchanging a quick look with Dean. “You’ll be doing a very important job, Emmanuel, you could help us stop a war by giving our enemies false information. If they use the documents you’ve sent them already to catch up to us and create a nuclear warhead—”

“No,” Castiel repeats, raising his voice to be heard over Dylan’s persistent monologue to no avail.

“—thousands of people could die. Millions. If you work with us you can stop all that from happening. You’ll be a hero.”

“I don’t want to be a hero,” Castiel says without missing a beat. “I want out of this life. I’m risking too much just by meeting you here.” He has spent three months trembling just at the thought of someone finding out he sent that letter, and he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life living like that. “By turning over all the information I have, I’m already stopping the war from happening, that will have to be enough. I told you my terms in my letter, and they’re non-negotiable.”

A vein throbs on Dylan’s forehead, the silence stretching between them as he sizes Castiel up. 

Dean has now turned his body away from the paintings, watching the scene unfold before him with mild interest, entirely unhelpful with the way he keeps his mouth shut.

_What’s he even doing here? Weren’t Dylan and his sidekicks from the diner enough?_

“Fine,” Dylan says at long last, tapping his fingers against the desk, a steady beat that scatters through the room. “I thought you wouldn’t agree to my proposal, but it was worth a try anyway. So, you want protection in exchange for copies of the documents you’ve been sending back to Moscow, as well as a list of the scientists and their couriers that are involved in your spy ring? It seems reasonable enough. As a matter of fact—” he unfolds his arms, pushing away from the desk and gestures for Dean to come closer, “—that’s exactly why Mr. Winchester is here.”

Dean walks with his hands in his pockets, the perfect image of nonchalance, lopsided grin turning downright wicked and making Castiel’s inside’s squirm—again, _unhelpful_. 

“Mr. Winchester,” Dylan continues, “is a U.S. Marshal, and from now on he’s your handler. He’ll make sure nothing happens to you until you’re moved to a secure location, where you’ll remain until we have those documents in our hands and a court date for the spies is set. You’ll be asked to testify against them, but after that, you’ll be a free man.”

“We’ll make sure you’re safe even then, of course,” Dean adds, raising his chin in a gesture that is surely meant to convey confidence but does little more than to draw Castiel’s attention to the long line of his neck— _very unhelpful_.

Castiel tears his eyes away and finds that Dean is staring at him again, so he sticks his jaw out, a silent dare that only makes Dean’s grin spread wider. 

“Arrangements will have to be made for your transfer,” Dylan says, unaware—or uncaring —of the staring contest happening right in front of him. “Winchester will remain in Santa Fe until then. I suggest you keep going on with your life as if nothing happened. Don’t want to raise any suspicions. We’ll be in touch.” And with that he nods in Castiel’s direction and walks away.

Castiel keeps his eyes on Dean, even as Dean scans past Castiel to watch Dylan open the door and leave. 

Even though it’s just the two of them and six feet of empty air between them, somehow the room feels cramped now, the atmosphere heavier. With what, though, Castiel can’t tell. 

“Emmanuel Allen,” Dean says, the name rolling off his tongue with a hint of a teasing drawl. “That’s an interesting name. Where did you get it?”

“Look, Winchester,” Castiel says and crosses the room in two wide steps, finding himself in Dean’s personal space; he doesn’t allow himself to be distracted by the press of a concealed gun where he misjudged the distance and leaned closer than he intended to, his chest bouncing against hard muscles, one of Dean’s hands hovering inches away from Castiel’s waist like he’s still not sure about pushing him away. “This may be a game to you, but I’m putting my life on the line here, and I don’t have the time to pretend to be your friend. Start taking this seriously, or find someone who will.”

Dean tips his head back, brows disappearing under his hat, and his whole demeanor changes. His posture goes from relaxed and easy to threatening, spine pulling straight as he uses his slightly taller frame to tower over Castiel, chest pushed out. “You think this is a game to me?” he asks, voice sharp like a knife, breath hitting Castiel’s heated skin with every word. “You know, I have better things to do than being someone’s babysitter, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand what’s at stake here.”

He shifts his weight forward, forcing Castiel to take half a step back and raise his face a bit to be able to meet his gaze without going cross-eyed—both unhelpful and infuriating. 

"And considering I'm the only thing standing between you and murder by your own _comrades_ ," Dean continues without slowing down or giving Castiel an opportunity to answer, "I'd suggest you be a good boy and do as you are told."

"I'm risking everything to help your country," Castiel says through gritted teeth, unwilling to step down, and so he presses forward, close enough that the subtle scent of Dean’s cologne floods his senses—again, he ignores it. "You should show me some respect."

Dean's eyes grow dark. They are close enough that Castiel sees the exact moment his pupils widen, and a shiver traces its fingertips down Castiel's spine. They stand there, chest to chest (and shoulder holster), toe to toe, breaths mingling in the barely-there empty space between them, caught in a silent contest of who can glare the other to death for one long, electrifying minute.

Then a door bangs closed in the distance, Dean blinks, shattering the moment, and Castiel snaps out of it. Limbs growing cold, he backs down, putting a good, _safe_ distance between him and the man who holds Castiel's safety in his hands. Still dizzy, he takes a noisy breath, tries to recover the slack reins of his lost composure, or whatever remains of it, and pull himself together. 

Dean, looking every bit as shaken as Castiel feels, smooths a hand down his jacket, ducks his head and exhales roughly. "Are you being watched?" he asks, voice thick with something Castiel doesn't have the time to inspect. "Is there anyone you report to?"

"No, no one this side of the Atlantic at least." He barely recognizes the sound of his own voice, rough and low, like the inside of his throat has been scratched raw. "And there's no one following me, either, if that's what you're asking."

"Good," Dean says. He clears his throat. "That's good. Makes my life easier."

"What are you going to do?"

Dean glances his way, mouth twisting uncomfortably, and shrugs. "Seems like a quiet town. I don't expect we'll have any problems—" who the _we_ is is left unexplained, "—and as long as you don't do anything out of the ordinary, the Soviets will have no reason to suspect you." 

"So…" Castiel trails off, keenly aware that Dean didn't really answer his question but not willing to push. 

"So." Dean tips his head in Castiel's direction for the second time that day, rolling his shoulders back, annoying grin back on his face, if a little strained. "I guess I'll see you around."

And with that he marches right out the door.

Castiel waits a couple of minutes to make sure Dean is not coming back, before collapsing against the nearest wall. He slides down, feet stretching out in front of him. Well, that went well—if one doesn't think about that _one_ minute during which Castiel was convinced it was a good idea to try his luck against a fucking _US Marshal._

Now, Castiel has his eye on the prize, Inias' name like a chant in the back of his head without pause since that night a year ago, and it takes a certain kind of man to make him lose his carefully maintained control. It's just his luck, of course, that Dean Winchester seems to be exactly that kind of man—cocky, abrasive, and too damn handsome.

Perfect. 


	2. Chapter 2

It takes Castiel a whole week of checking over his shoulder to realize that when Dean said ‘I’ll see you around’, he didn’t mean it literally, for he is nowhere to be found. Castiel’s not sure how to feel about that. The disappearing act of the man who is supposed to be protecting him is not exactly trust-inspiring. Dylan has also pulled some kind of disappearing act, presumably returned back to where he came from with more important stuff to deal with until Castiel is pulled out of Santa Fe. 

He sighs as he walks up the hill, the sun hot on his back, making his shirt cling to his skin drenched in sweat. Castiel loves painting, and he’s grown somewhat fond of this small town, tucked as it is in the base of the mountain, but if he never spends another day hiking up to that god-forsaken spot where his courier leaves the files for him it’ll still be too soon. He’s more than ready for a change of scenery, if not for the adrenaline rush of turning his back to the country that he dedicated his life to once upon a time. And yet, here he is, making a deal with their sworn enemies and still walking up the hill. The latter bothers him more, for some reason. 

As both Dylan and Dean advised him, Castiel has kept up his routine without fail. He’s even continued sending information back to Moscow and answering the postcards that arrive without fail once a week since he set foot on American soil. 

Now, he drops his bags by his favorite rock, sets up his easel and wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. The pile of rocks is waiting for him a few feet away, the X mark almost invisible under the blinding midday light. Nothing new here, Castiel thinks, pulling the stone out of the pile and shoving his hand inside to pull the folder out. 

He gives it a quick glance, more out of habit that anything else, and pauses. Blinks. What he sees remains unchanged, no matter how much he stares at it. The scrap of paper pinned on top of the folder stares back at him. 

Now, _that’s_ new. 

And potentially dangerous. 

He quirks his head to the side, trying to make out the messy handwriting, and wonders if maybe his higher ups have already gotten word of his plan. If maybe this is a warning, moments before a sniper blows his brains out without ever so much as crossing paths with Castiel. A little extreme—and obvious—for the KGB, but quick and effective nonetheless. 

When he finally deciphers the hurriedly scrawled words, Castiel’s mouth falls open, and for a moment he considers if maybe this is worse.

_Castiel is kind of a mouthful but definitely an upgrade from Emmanuel. I kinda like it. I bet there’s a story behind it._

Castiel crumbles the paper in his fist, willing his hand to stop shaking. _Dean—fucking— Winchester._ The message has to be from him. What the fuck is Dean thinking, taking such a huge risk just to… what? Mock Castiel? Prove a point? Castiel can’t even begin to guess what this message is supposed to mean.

One thing is glaringly obvious, though. Dean’s been _watching_ him. Somehow, despite being as discreet as a bull running wild inside a glass shop, Dean’s managed to follow Castiel around without Castiel noticing, and not only learn Castiel’s routine, but find out his dead drop location, and worst of all, his _name._

Castiel would be impressed if he wasn’t so pissed. He hasn't revealed his name to anyone yet, not even to the CIA, and he hasn't heard anyone mention it since he reached this country, three years ago; even his fellow agents refer to him by code name only, and the postcards with instructions are always addressed to Emmanuel Allen. 

He lets the non-existent dry breeze cool his heated skin for a second, before shoving the note along with the folder into his bag. Following his routine is important. But a walk around town before he returns home is not going to look suspicious. At least not to anyone but Dean.

* * *

It takes Castiel two days and too much walking before he finally catches a glimpse of Dean. 

When walking around town didn't do the trick, Castiel decided to go for something bigger. He hasn't left Santa Fe since sending that letter three months ago but today, when the man he was waiting for walked into the diner wearing a hat—their signal for ‘no dead drop today’—it seemed like the perfect opportunity. 

So, after dropping his bags back in his house, Castiel finds himself on the train station, a ticket in his hand, and the all-pullman Chief waiting for people to board. It's the perfect plan. And just like he calculated, at the last moment before the train leaves the station, a tall, bow-legged figure shoves its way through the crowd and comes to stand a few feet away from Castiel.

Dean has traded his suit for more casual clothes, and that helps him blend in a little, but it doesn’t hide him from Castiel. Green eyes meet blue over the head of several people, and Dean holds Castiel’s gaze unflinchingly, _boldy_ , as the doors of the train close, the whistle roars, and the Chief pulls out of the station. 

Neither Dean nor Castiel are on it.

Castiel should look away. There are far too many people still around—anyone could see them—but there’s a magnetic pull behind his sternum, an electric current running through his veins, and he just stands on the platform and stares at Dean. He stares at Dean even as something close to a smirk twitches at the corner of Dean’s lips, and the crumpled note burns in Castiel’s pocket.

It’s Dean that closes the distance between them. He comes to stand next to Castiel, hands loosely held behind his back, and he gazes into the distance. The line of his nose and jaw is illuminated by the sunlight, creating a bright outline that makes it almost blinding to keep looking at him.

“Interesting choice.” Dean’s face betrays nothing.

Castiel keeps his expression equally indifferent. “I like to people watch.”

Dean hums in answer, and they wait there while the crowd around them thins. It’s Sunday, so the station is more busy than usual, but soon it’s just them and the station master. Not great for people watching, so really there’s no reason for either of them to linger here any longer. 

Except…

“You could have gotten us both killed.”

Dean’s expression never falters. He seems to understand what Castiel is referring to even without an explanation, though. “Give me some credit. I know what I’m doing.”

Good. Castiel would have overestimated him if he didn’t. 

“Do you?” Castiel asks, never missing a beat. “Anyone else could have gotten to that note before me.”

“But they didn’t. No one ever does.” There’s something smug about the way Dean shrugs, like he has no care in the world. “Besides, I’m good at my job. You didn’t know I was watching you until that moment, did you?”

“Maybe it should have stayed that way.”

“It’s more interesting _this_ way, though. Besides, now we get to talk.”

“What do we have to talk about?” Besides the fact Castiel is walking a very fine line between life and death and Dean seems to be the one thing waiting to catch him in case he falls.

“Castiel. That doesn’t sound very—” Dean scans the empty station, probably looking for the perfect word that won’t give them away even if someone happens to be listening in, “—very Orthodox,” he settles for at last. 

“It’s not,” Castiel says. “It’s Catholic.”

Dean waits. 

Castiel scoffs. “That’s all you’re getting out of me. How did you even find out anyway?”

Dean reaches into his pocket, retrieves a cigarette pack and picks one out, sticking it between his lips before offering the pack to Castiel; Castiel won’t say no to a free smoke, especially not when he’s as stressed as he is right now.

“I have my ways,” Dean says around his cigarette, holding the end of it and his lighter inside a curled palm. Then he holds the lighter out for Castiel. “I can tell you if you want.”

Castiel holds Dean’s gaze in challenge, before snatching the lighter. 

The first inhale of smoke fills his lungs, twists and burns inside him so good that Castiel’s shoulders relax almost immediately. It gives him a good excuse to let the silence stretch between them. It’s dangerous waters he’s treading, even with someone as easy-going as Dean seems to be. One wrong step and Castiel will find himself six feet under. Still, it’s a nice day, and Dean seems to be in the mood to talk. They are away from prying eyes, or as far away as they can be without leaving Santa Fe altogether, and maybe he can finally get some of the answers he so desperately needs. 

“When will I be moved?” 

“Soon.” Dean doesn’t look like he’s about to elaborate. 

Castiel is not about to give up. “How will I be moved?”

“We’ll find an excuse for you to travel. Probably under the pretense of that gallery thing Dylan was talking about.”

Good. They’re finally getting somewhere. “And then?”

“And then we’ll take care of the rest.” Dean holds his cigarette between his thumb and index finger, taps it so the ash falls to the ground. “There’s not much for you to do but sit back and wait.”

“I’m not used to waiting,” Castiel lies. His job is essentially three long years of waiting. Waiting for orders, waiting for dead drops, waiting for the postcards, waiting for the right moment to send that letter to the CIA. Waiting _._ It’s just that all that waiting is getting a bit too much. This was supposed to be the moment to act. 

“Nothing I can do to help with that,” Dean says, laughing, lips stretching over straight teeth. “I’m as stuck as you are.”

Castiel exhales on a sigh. He’s so fucking tired of waiting.

“You know,” Dean says conversationally, “your cover is good. Like _crazy_ good. I had to pull a lot of strings and ask a lot of favors to dig up enough information on you to find what little I managed to find.” If it wasn’t for his voice dropping low, close to a whisper, the tone of his voice would never betray he’s as worried as Castiel about anyone watching them. “But—because there’s always a but, don’t look at me like that now—but there is a hole. Namely the fact that you send and receive postcards to a ‘Maria Krushnik’ in Belarus. It wasn’t hard to find out she has a son around your age after that.”

For the first time in close to a year, Castiel feels the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips. “I always told them it was risky. They never agreed with me.”

“I only found the connection because I was specifically looking for it. Sending letters to a woman in Belarus is hardly suspicious.” Dean’s cigarette is almost finished, and with his next exhale of smoke he throws it to the ground, crushes it under the heel of his shoe. 

“They are forwarded to Moscow from there,” Castiel tells him. He’s tempted to just tell Dean everything, how he came here, how he became Emmanuel, how the whole operation works. But it’s not the time. Or the place. 

Dean cocks his head to the side, as if to say that what Castiel just said makes sense. 

They have drifted close together, closer than what is probably sensible even if Castiel wasn’t a Soviet spy, but the station is still empty, the sky is clear, and the body heat radiating from Dean where their arms are almost brushing is very comforting. Castiel takes another drag of his cigarette. He can probably draw it out for a couple more minutes. It’s nice to stay here, even if there’s nothing else for them to talk about right now.

* * *

‘Soon’ is sooner than either of the two would have guessed. It’s barely two nights later that Castiel is shaken awake, a hand swinging out on instinct only for Dean to block it easily. 

“Hey, watch it. It’s me.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at him, trying to blink the sleep away. English is slow to come to him, so he opens and closes his mouth, trying to find the proper words for ‘what the fuck are you doing in my house in the middle of the night’.

“Get up,” Dean says, throwing the blankets off Castiel, and absurdly, Castiel feels the urge to cover up. Dean rolls his eyes. “Come on, get up. We don’t have time.”

The wheels inside Castiel’s brain finally start working again, maybe pushed along by the urgency in Dean’s voice, maybe by the adrenaline that rushes through Castiel’s veins when he realizes Dean keeps checking around him nervously. 

“What’s going on?” Castiel is out of his bed in less than a second, grabbing his pants from the chair he uses instead of a side table. 

Dean presses himself against the wall, pushes the curtains to the side to peek outside, face grim as the moonlight casts him in silver shadows. “I got a report about some suspicious movements in town in the past few days. We can’t wait for Dylan’s cover story, we’re pulling you out now, before our suspicions are confirmed in the worst way possible.”

Castiel fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, while simultaneously he tries to keep his still undone pants from falling. “Now? How?” 

“There’s a van waiting for us outside,” Dean says. He moves a bit, and the moonlight catches on the gun handle that is barely visible under his jacket; Castiel doubts he’d be allowed to retrieve his own gun, even if they had time. “Take only what’s absolutely necessary. Do you keep proof of your work for the KGB in the house? Because we need to get that now. I don’t know if we’ll be able to come back here again.”

Castiel thinks of the postcards he has hidden here and his equipment, but he keeps his mouth shut. The evidence he’s carefully gathered in the past year is far more useful. But it’s not in this house. He’ll give Dean a location later, once he’s sure he’s safe.

“Come on, come on,” Dean urges under his breath as he leads Castiel out of the house under the guise of darkness. The van is nothing more than a vague shape against the outline of the house across the street, and Castiel is pushed in the back of it before Dean climbs after him and locks the door from the inside. It’s a small space, and their knees touch as they sit opposite each other. 

Castiel’s heart thunders against his ribcage as the van starts moving, driving away from his house and any semblance of normalcy he’d managed to find in this small town. The first thing that he thinks about is who is going to feed the black cat now that he’s gone. Then everything else comes crashing down on him, and he shivers. This is it. No more beating around the bush. He just officially defected. And if Dean is to be believed, he defected just in time before his comrades took care of him and his big mouth.

He tries to make out Dean in the darkness, but he’s nothing more than a shadow. Was it because of Dean that the Soviets discovered Castiel’s plan? Was anyone watching them that day at the station? Did anyone find that note before Castiel? Maybe someone was watching him when Dylan first sat across from him in that dingy diner. Maybe someone saw him send that letter months ago. There are so many moments that he could have made a mistake. He’s surprised he actually managed to make it this far. 

“How many men are with you?” Castiel asks, knees bumping with Dean as the van takes a sharp turn and makes him lose his balance for a second.

“Me, the driver and one more guy,” Dean replies. “We couldn’t risk bringing more. If someone really was going to come after you it’d be a dead giveaway, and they’d move up their plan.”

Castiel nods, before he realizes Dean probably can’t see him. “Where are we going?”

“Chicago.” 

Castiel gapes at him. “We’re going all the way to Chicago in a van?”

Dean’s silhouette moves a bit, shoulders drawing together. “We’re getting out of town in the van. We’ll change means of transport once it’s safe. This is the most dangerous part of our trip.” 

Castiel opens his mouth to answer, to ask Dean what’s waiting for him in Chicago and if Dean will still be in charge of protecting Castiel when they make it there, but the world explodes around them before he has the chance to.

The sound of metal hitting metal is deafening. 

The whole car is jerked sideways, and for a horrifying moment, Castiel swears he can feel it lift off the ground and float. Then it comes crashing down, and Castiel crashes on Dean, thrown to the other side of the car with the force of the hit.

“What the fuck?” Dean yells, as the car spins, and Castiel barely stops himself from throwing up then and there. 

The car slides on the road, and Castiel wonders how they haven’t hit a tree, or a wall or something yet, but then it slows and screeches to a stop. Deadly silence follows, broken only by Castiel’s and Dean’s soft groans as they untangle their limbs.

“What happened?” Castiel asks, pressing a hand to his shoulder, pain radiating down his arm from where he landed weirdly on it.

Dean shushes him. 

They sit in the dark, waiting. 

Then they hear it. 

Footsteps. 

Voices. 

A door groans open, or maybe it collapses, judging by the crash of metal that follows. Murmurs. A gunshot.

Silence again. 

Dean is illuminated by the glow of the streetlights outside, and he turns to Castiel. There’s blood running from a gash on his temple, catching at his eyelashes and the corner of his mouth. Silently, he gestures for Castiel to follow him. 

Whoever is outside is probably busy checking the two men in the front of the van, which gives them enough time to get their bearings together, because they have less than a minute to come up with a plan. 

Dean retrieves his gun and checks it’s loaded. The sound of it cocking scatters through the broken van, loud enough that Castiel holds his breath, sure the man— _men?_ —outside must have heard it. Dean doesn’t look too worried, though, from what little Castiel can make out in the darkness. He nods towards the door, and Castiel understands. 

He follows Dean’s lead and presses himself flat against the corner of the van, a hand on the door handle, mirroring Dean across from him. 

A shadow appears in front of the tinted windows of the door, and Castiel holds his breath. The door rattles, but he keeps it closed. The man outside pulls harder, and Castiel’s grip on the handle becomes strained. 

Dean has his gun ready, locks eyes with Castiel and mouths the countdown.

_Three._

Castiel takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

_Two._

His grip on the rattling door is sliping, and he has never wished for his gun more than this instant.

_One._

Castiel hits the door with his shoulder.

The door is thrown open with enough force that the man trying to open it is thrown back. 

Something clutters to the pavement. 

“Hey,” the man yells and scrambles back, reaches blindly behind him. 

Dean jumps out first, gun firing before his legs touch the ground, and the man’s choked cry dies behind his lips. The streetlights shed their glow over the blood quickly pooling under the unknown man, and more importantly, his gun laying a few feet away from him. Castiel runs for it just as a second assailant appears. 

Cas sees the man raise his weapon, and he drops to the ground, knowing that he won’t reach the gun in time.

“Hands—”

The gunshot cracks through the air, deafening in the peaceful silence of the tiny town, and the man stumbles back, shoulder jerking with the force of the bullet that hit him. The second hits him right in the chest, and he goes down like his strings have been cut.

“Cas, you okay?” Dean asks, running to him.

Castiel grabs the gun and shoves it into his waistband, before accepting the hand Dean’s offering to help him up. Everything is sore and painful, and he’s sure he’s going to be covered in bruises tomorrow. 

A cursory look around reveals that they’d made it almost past the edge of town before a semi truck hit them. On purpose, he’s sure. They’re far enough from the last houses that even if the owners woke up from the sound of the collision and the gunshots, they wouldn’t be able to do anything to help them. The truck is still lodged in the side of the van, smoke curling away from its engine, and the air fills with the smell of spilled gasoline. Some windows light up in the distance. The police will be here soon.

“Who the fuck are they?” he asks, panting. 

“I don’t know.” Dean walks to the dead body closest to them, squinting down at him. He kicks it for good measure, then turns back to the van, running to the front of it. 

The van is destroyed, the driver’s side totalled in the collision. Neither of Dean’s colleagues survived. their assailants made sure of it with their bullets. 

“Fucking shit,” Dean says, tearing the jacket of one of their attackers to wipe the blood away from his face, and Castiel has to agree with him.

Headlights appear in the distance. A car. One heading straight for them and fast.

“How likely is it that it’s someone on our side coming to our rescue,” Castiel asks dryly. He knows the answer even before Dean grabs his elbow and tugs him away from the scene. 

“None. Come on, we have to hide.” 

They run into the bushes and away from the road. Dean keeps going so Castiel follows him, sticks catching at his clothes, rocks and stones threatening to trip him over with his every step. They’re probably safer where a car can’t easily reach them, even though there’s no doubt in his mind that whoever is after them, after _him,_ won’t hesitate to continue their pursuit on foot. So, they have to disappear and do it fast.


	3. Chapter 3

They run until they’re breathless, and then they walk until their feet bleed. It’s almost ten in the morning when they emerge through the bushes bloody and dirty and breathless but safe. For now. He always knew betraying his country would come with consequences. He just never realized how soon he’d face them. Castiel has no doubts that they won’t stop until they get to him. 

“Civilization, finally,” Dean grumbles as they walk towards the gas stop in the middle of nowhere they’ve found themselves at. “Jesus, let’s pray they have coffee.”

The gas stop is empty save for a bored, pimply guy behind the register. He raises his eyebrow at them when they enter, but Castiel’s not worried. He doubts the guy has any connection to the KGB, and even if anyone makes it here looking for them, they’ll be long gone by then.

Where they’ll go, though… now that’s a question he doesn’t have the answer to.

“What are we going to do?” he hisses, following Dean away from the employee’s curious eyes. 

Dean taps a finger on his chin, frowning at the selection of snacks this place has to offer. “We get in contact with my boss Bobby, and we lay low until he can come out here and get us.”

Castiel gapes at him. “Are you serious? No, absolutely not.”

Dean’s brows draw together in genuine confusion. “You almost got murdered and you… _don’t_ want protection.”

“It’s not that I don’t want protection, it’s that in our current state, and especially after last night’s—” he checks over his shoulder, and the cashier drops his head in a hurry; wonderful, a nosy stranger is exactly what he needs right now, “—after last night’s _events_ , I don’t really trust any of your colleagues.”

“You think _we_ had something to do with this? Two of my men died last night, in case you forgot.”

It’s cute that Dean is naive enough to look offended at Castiel’s words. Castiel, however, has been playing this game for a long time. Nothing surprises him anymore.

He crowds Dean against the shelves, pushing his chest out, and he drops his voice close to a whisper. “Tell me, how many people knew about my transfer? That it was going to be specifically last night? That we would use a van, what time you’d be coming for me. How many people knew?”

Dean clenches his jaw, and a muscle vibrates under it. He stares back without hesitation, green eyes growing hard. “You think we have a mole?” he hisses in the breath of air between them. 

“Can you think of an alternative explanation?”

Dean seems to hold his breath. Then he deflates. “Fuck, you’re right. But Bobby is one of the good guys, I can vouch for him.”

“Would you bet your life on it?”

“Of course!”

“Well, excuse me if I’m not willing to bet _my_ life on someone I’ve never met.”

Dean scoffs. “Good thing I’m in charge here, then.” 

He tries to step past Castiel, bumping their shoulders, and Castiel grabs his elbow. They are not done. “No one is in charge here, because you’re not sticking around.”

“Wha—”

“You and your agency have failed me. I’m exposed and vulnerable, and all because I trusted you,” Castiel feels righteous fury simmering in his veins as he stares Dean down. His hold on his elbow hardens, enough that Dean winces. “I’m going to die, and it’s going to be for nothing, because your ‘ _secret services_ ’ are not as secret as you’d like to think, so do me a favor, and let me handle this myself.”

Dean does a double take. “You think you can get out of this mess on your own?”

“I know I can,” Castiel says. 

And now, finally, they are done.

He drops Dean’s elbow like it’s dirty, and he walks away with his head held high. It’s fine. He can get through this. He just has to get his evidence, and… and he’ll figure something out. Maybe he’ll call Dylan again and ask to testify as soon as possible. Maybe he’ll send everything to the papers and be done with it, wash his hands of this situation, sit back and watch the world burn. Now, that thought is tempting.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean is heard somewhere behind him. He runs past Castiel, and puts himself between Castiel and the door, using his bulk to his advantage. “Will you please stop being a pain in the ass and listen to me? You’re not making any sense, you can’t do this alone.”

Castiel can feel the cashier’s eyes boring holes into his back, and he shifts his weight. Dean catches on and glares daggers at the guy until he feels uncomfortable enough to mutter something about having to do inventory and run out of the room. And he doesn’t even know they’re both carrying.

“Get out of my way, Dean.”

“Or what?” Dean challenges, chin held high and exposing the long line of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows before his next words. “You’re gonna shoot me?”

“No, but I _am_ tempted to punch you,” Castiel says, crossing his arms over his chest. This is childish and a waste of time. 

Dean rolls his eyes, a whole body movement that throws his head to the side. Suddenly he freezes. His mouth falls open. “Fucking hell, don’t tell me—” 

Seemingly forgetting all about his argument with Castiel, Dean abandons his position, strides towards the cash register, and grabs one of the newspapers stacked there.

The coast is clear. Castiel could walk out at this very second, like he intended to do, but something about the way Dean’s shoulders tense up makes him pause. 

“Ah, Cas?” Dean says, voice shaky. “I think you might want to take a look at this.”

Castiel’s breath hitches, though he doesn’t know what this is about yet. One thing he’s sure of: it’s not going to be good news. He grabs the newspaper out of Dean’s hands, only for his stomach to turn over painfully at the front cover. He curses.

_‘The Santa Fe Killer’_ the front page announces in loud capital letters, and right underneath is a picture of him. 

“I don't understand… how…?” he tries to say but words fail him.

“They are blaming you for that bloody mess we left on the highway.” Dean swallows audibly. “Someone, somehow has pinned all four deaths on you.”

“And it’s already on the papers?” Castiel asks, trying and failing to keep his hands from shaking.

“I—I don’t know,” Dean says. “But with your face on the paper, we—” He stops mid-sentence, snaps his head up, and stares right at the door behind which the employee has disappeared. “How long has he been in there?”

Bile rises in the back of Castiel’s throat. “Long enough to call the cops.”

“Awesome.” Dean grabs the newspaper out of Castiel’s hands, then grabs Castiel by the shoulder and manhandles him towards the door. “Come on, we gotta get out of here.”

“And go where?” Castiel asks. Everything is ruined. His plan, his chance to still see this through, his life. As long as it was just his old comrades after him, Castiel thought he could do this. He thought he had a chance. Now that he’s wanted for fucking murder, he has to hide from _everyone._

“We’ll figure something out. But first we have to make ourselves scarce before the cops show up here.”

Dean leads the way towards the back of the gas station, where several overflowing garbage cans pushed against the walls rot under the scorching sun. The smell is overwhelming, but it’s the least of the reasons that make Castiel want to throw up. 

There’s a car parked near the employee entrance, and Dean makes a beeline for it. As soon as they are there, he lets go of Castiel, only to kick one of the garbage cans down and start going through its contents.

“What the hell?” Castiel asks.

“You have a gun, right? Take it out, and if the cashier comes out here send him back inside. We don’t have much time.” 

Castiel blinks. “You want me to shoot the poor guy?”

Dean digs through the trash, muttering under his breath, until finally, he makes an _aha_ noise and emerges with a wire hanger in his hands. “It’s our lucky day, Cas. And no, I don’t want you to shoot him, I want you to _threaten_ to shoot him.”

Castiel barely has any time to process what Dean just said, before Dean pulls the wire hanger straight and shoves it into the door frame. The lock gives way easily, and Dean grins as he opens the door and slides behind the wheel. 

“What are you waiting for?” 

Considering he’s wanted for murder, stealing a car doesn’t sound too bad. Luckily for them the cashier is probably hiding somewhere inside the gas station, hoping the crazy killer and his friend don’t harm him before the cops arrive, so Castiel doesn’t have to use his gun at all. 

When he sits in the passenger seat, Dean is ducked under the wheel, fiddling with wires, and then the car roars to life.

“Ah, still got it.” He grins at Castiel, all boyish charm and bravado. With the sunlight washing him in gold, it’s hard to consider ditching him here; plus he just proved himself useful. “Let’s get out of here.”

A cloud of dust and dirt billows behind them, tires spinning wildly. Dean drives fast but steady, and soon the gas station is nothing but a spot in the distance behind them. What’s ahead of them, Castiel has no idea. 

* * *

There’s no emergency big enough to stop Dean from getting food and coffee, Castiel finds out very soon. The drive-in they’ve stopped at is about ten minutes out of Albuquerque, empty, and makes the greasiest fries Castiel has ever tried. 

When Dean had parked here Castiel’s stomach had done a double flip. Τhen threatened to spill its meager contents all over the upholstery when the waitress came over for their order. Βut Dean worked his magic—mainly flirting and shoving himself practically through the window so the woman couldn’t get a good look at Castiel in the passenger seat—and managed to get them something for breakfast without putting them at risk. 

“So, has all that staring at the newspaper for the last two hours or so revealed any hidden secrets to you?” Dean asks around a mouthful of fries. It’s both disgusting and endearing.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Castiel snaps, eyes glued to the photo of him in the paper. It hasn’t changed since he first saw it. He’s read the passage underneath it so many times that he’s memorized it down to the last period. His fingers itch for a smoke, but as luck would have it, he didn’t think to grab his pack when he left his house last night.

“Fine, _Mom,”_ Dean says. He shoves another mouthful of fries into his mouth, but thankfully, he chews with his mouth closed this time. Little mercies, Castiel supposes. 

He has barely touched the food Dean got him, but the coffee has been good to get his brain into gear again. “To sum everything up, someone tried to kill me last night—”

“Me, too,” Dean adds. 

Castiel ignores him.

“—your organization clearly has a mole problem, and someone decided to pin the deaths of both your agents and my would-be-murderers on me. The article also says that I kidnapped you, though it doesn’t mention your occupation or why you were in town.” Or Castiel’s real name and job. Those after him clearly don’t want word to get out about a KGB agent defecting. 

“You speak so formally all the time. Nobody talks like that. I’m surprised no one figured you out sooner.” Dean says and gulps down the rest of his coffee. He sighs, eyes closed, like he just drank ambrosia instead of shitty filter coffee. “That was exactly what I needed. So, ‘ _to sum up’_ —” he raises an eyebrow at Castiel’s direction, “—it’s the two of us against the world right about now, since you refuse to let me make contact with Bobby.”

“I never said you could stay,” Castiel tries to say, but Dean shushes him. 

He purses his lips, gazing at the diner. “We need a plan.”

“We need to get all the evidence I have and get it to Dylan as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, but that’s our goal. How do we do that when the Soviets and police alike are hot on our trail and there’s no one we can trust besides each other? We don’t even have anything to defend ourselves with except my gun, the one you stole from that guy, and no bullets.”

Castiel considers that. “I have guns.”

“You do?” Dean asks, cocking his head to the side.

Castiel doesn’t appreciate the disbelief he can detect in his tone. “I kept provisions for a rainy day. They are back at my house.”

“What like under your bed?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “No. I have a much better hiding spot.”

Dean nods. He taps his fingers against the wheel in a tune that Castiel doesn’t recognize. “Alright then. Step one: Ditch this car and find another one. Step two: Make it back to Santa Fe and break into your house for weapons—”

“And money. And preferably a change of clothes.”

“—Step three: Find your evidence and survive long enough to get them back to Agent Dylan.”

Castiel swallows thickly. “Easier said than done.”

Dean turns the ignition and the car roars to life. “Relax. You’re with a professional bodyguard, remember?” He winks, and that makes something stir deep inside Castiel.

He doesn’t have the energy to argue with Dean. Besides, Castiel doubts anything he says will stop Dean from sticking around. It seems he’s decided that Castiel is his responsibility, and though it’s probably born out of dedication to his mission, Castiel feels warm to his core at the hint that Dean could care. That he’s on his side. Surprisingly, and despite the ridiculous way Dean waggles his eyebrows, Castiel feels a little better. He can’t ‘ _relax_ ’, but he does feel better.

* * *

It’s almost midnight when they make it back to Castiel’s house in their new(ly stolen) car. It’s a warm night, and a lot of people are still out and about, but Dean avoided the busier streets, sticking instead to back roads, so Castiel is pretty sure no one followed them. His neighbors have their curtains drawn, lights off, and knowing Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, Castiel would bet his left hand that they’re already sleeping. 

No sign of the cat, he notices, but he doesn’t have the time to linger. 

Just to be extra careful, they avoid his front door and use the kitchen window to get inside instead. They squeeze through in the darkness, hands fumbling to push and shove him in a way that’s not helping at all, but Castiel allows it anyway.

The house is dark and silent. It looks just like it did the last time he saw it. Like he only stepped out for five minutes instead of a whole day. At least that means that no one has been in here since they left. He’s sure any agents looking for his documents and any evidence of his work wouldn’t have bothered to leave the place spotless. 

“Where to?” Dean asks, gun in his hands as he slips inside after Castiel. He lands on silent feet and draws the curtain closed behind him, surrendering them to the dark again.

In the darkness, Castiel misjudges the distance and bumps right into Dean when he turns around and almost trips. With a steady hand on his shoulder, Dean keeps him upright. His fingers are warm even through the layers of clothing between them, his breath hits Castiel’s face with how close they’re standing now.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Castiel says hoarsely. 

He can’t make out Dean’s expression in the darkness. Only the outline of him, bathed with moonlight sneaking in through the curtains behind him. Wide shoulders, strong arms.

“Where are the guns?” Dean repeats, and Castiel belatedly realizes that he’s forgotten to pull away. 

_Fuck, what is he doing?_

He takes a step back and turns away. “Follow me.” 

First he leads the way back to his bedroom, from where he grabs two duffel bags. In one of them he shoves a few shirts and a couple of pants, along with a few bills. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. Then he pulls all the clothes from his wardrobe out and dumps them on the bed, under Dean’s bewildered gaze.

“No offense, Cas, but I don’t think we need that many clothes.”

“If you could just give me a second,” Castiel tells him, blindly fumbling along the back of his wardrobe for that one piece of wood. A little to the left, and probably a little up, and… _bingo!_

He presses the secret button, and the back of the wardrobe pops back, revealing a narrow staircase. Castiel steps inside first, a hand on the wall to guide him. There’s no way anyone could see the light in here from outside, so he doesn’t hesitate to find the switch and turn it on as he starts the climb down.

Dean whistles as he follows down. “A secret passage? Color me impressed, Cas. Did you build this yourself?”

“The basement already existed when I moved here,” Castiel explains, counting the steps. “I just did a few modifications.”

“You call a freaking secret door a _modification_?”

“That was easy to make,” Castiel says. He reaches the landing and finds the light switch for the room on the wall next to him. “The rest of it not so much.”

The light above their head flickers on, and Dean gasps. “Holy shit. This is awesome. This is a _basement?”_

“It was. Then I remodeled it into a bunker.” He scans the room. The same iron lined walls. The same reinforced ceiling. The cot neatly made and tucked to the corner of the room next to his desk, where his equipment stands. It looks untouched, and a sense of relief washes over him. He walks further inside, conscious of Dean’s mouth hanging open somewhere in his peripheral vision.

“Sweet Jesus. My family owns a bunker back in Kansas, but you actually _built_ this on your own?”

Castiel shrugs, though it’s hard not to preen. “It took me a couple of months, but it was worth it. I keep all of my equipment down here.”

Dean follows Castiel’s gaze to the machines on the desk, and he whistles. “So what is it exactly you do? I mean, I know you send classified documents back to the Soviets, but how does that work after you get that folder from your courier?”

Usually Castiel is not one to indulge other people’s curiosity, but tonight he’s feeling generous. Maybe it’s because he knows this is the last time he will step inside this room. The one place he could be his true self in the last three years. 

“It’s simple enough. All the documents I’m given are turned into microfilms with this machine here—” he rests his hand on top of a bulky screen which takes up most of his desk, “—then I hide them in hollow nickels. Sometimes I’m given messages from the couriers or the scientists working for KGB and then I have to code them and follow the same procedure as with the documents. All the original documents and messages are destroyed as soon as I have the microfilm ready. Then I send the hollow nickels back to my mother’s address in Minsk, and from there it’s forwarded to my handler in Moscow.” 

A wicked grin splits Dean’s face. “That part I knew about.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Yes, you’ve pointed that out already.”

“And the guns?” Dean asks, narrowing his eyes at the papers Castiel’s left on his desk. They are covered in diagrams and numbers, indecipherable to Castiel, but mighty useful for scientists back home. 

Except it’s not home anymore. It’s the enemy now. Has been since they pointed a finger at Inias and murdered him. 

The memory punches the breath out of him. Ice runs down his spine, at the same time shame surges hot through him. He was so busy running for his life in the last few hours, that he forgot. 

“Hey, Cas?” Dean says, and a hand lands on Castiel’s shoulder. “The guns?”

Castiel gazes back at him, at the freckle-dusted nose, the gentle curve of his mouth, the worry in his eyes, and his stomach recoils. 

_Remember why you’re doing this,_ he tells himself. 

He doesn’t shake Dean off so much as he struggles out of his grip. 

Dean raises a questioning eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “The guns,” he repeats. 

For the third time, Castiel realizes. God, he needs to snap out of it. This is not the time to lose his cool. 

“Over here.” His voice comes out low and pained, despite his best efforts to the opposite. He keeps his back to Dean, not wanting to let him see the crumbling expression Castiel can feel painted across his features. He has to keep up the illusion of being in control.

There’s a metal cabinet on the wall furthest from the door, which Castiel keeps locked even though he’s the only one to ever step foot inside this room. Except Dean now. It’s a simple combination lock, nothing fancy, and he has it open in a matter of seconds. He throws the doors open and steps back to reveal his collection of guns and weapons. 

It’s small but well-rounded. From handguns to machine guns and rifles. There’s even a couple of grenades and several magazines in a box on the bottom of the cabinet. 

“You preparing for World War Three or something?” Despite the humor in his voice, Dean seems impressed. 

“Actually, yes. I have to, considering who I am and what I do.”

Dean nods his head to the side as if to say that’s fair. Then he steps closer and runs a hand over a sniper rifle. “Which ones do we take?”

Castiel drops the empty duffel bag in front of the cabinet. “All of them.”

A wicked grin splits Dean’s face, and for a second, Castiel’s treacherous heart skips a beat in response. He hates himself for it and tamps the thrumming in his veins down with fury and shame. 

“You know what, Cas?” Dean says, already busy unhooking guns from the cabinet and stashing them into the bag. “I think the two of us are going to be good friends.”

“I doubt that.” Castiel’s throat is too dry. More for something to keep his hands—and mind—busy, than because Dean needs help, he crouches to the ground, and starts packing, too.

“Oh come on. I’m a fun guy, I know my way around guns, _and_ I drive the most beautiful car you’ve ever seen. What’s not to like?” Dean teases, winking in Castiel’s direction. 

Castiel seriously doesn’t need this right now. He doesn’t need the way his pulse picks up or how Dean’s frisky tone makes his stomach flutter. “The car you stole is old and loud,” he says, aiming for grouchy and landing somewhere between nervous and tired. 

“What? I’m not talking about that monstrosity,” Dean says, looking downright offended. “No, no. My car’s a beauty. A 1940 Chevrolet Double Delux. All black and shiny and gorgeous. Makes the ladies go crazy and—”

A grey blur of dust swirls down from the ceiling, making Castiel’s nose itchy. His eyes drift upwards, and his ribcage clenches around his lungs. 

“—just hear her roar when she’s good to go—”

“Shut up,” Castiel snaps, heartbeat frantic inside his chest. 

Dean’s expression sours, but he complies. Soon his eyes widen, and he glances up just as footsteps are heard above their heads again, and green eyes find Castiel in a silent question.

“Someone’s here. We have to go. Now!” Castiel wastes no time shoving what he already had in his hand inside the duffel bag and pushing it towards Dean, who’s still staring at the ceiling.

With the duffel bag shoved in his hands, he seems to snap out of it. “We’ll have to fight our way through.”

“Not necessarily,” Castiel replies. He hastily retrieves a handgun and inserts the magazine, checks the safety, then grabs the bag with the clothes he’d left by the stairs and rushes back to Dean’s side. “There’s another way out.”

Dean’s brow creases with a confused frown. “Another secret door? How much free time did you have?”

“A lot. Now hurry up,” Castiel says, half dragging Dean by the shoulder towards the cot. He pushes it out of the way just as voices are heard at the top of the stairs. 

The men upstairs are whispering, probably wanting to use the element of surprise to their advantage, so Castiel can’t make out what they’re saying or if they’re American or Soviet. He doesn’t intend to stick around and find out. 

Cot pushed out of the way, he traces the almost invisible line on the wall that marks the small opening with his fingertips. A push in the right direction and the door creaks open. 

Castiel holds his breath. The voices are not louder, but they sound closer. Maybe. 

“This will take us to my backyard,” Castiel tells Dean before crawling inside. It used to be a second door with wooden stairs leading down to the basement from his garden, but it was too big and too obvious from the outside, so Castiel had built a wall down in the basement to cover the stairs, leaving only the rectangular opening that was easily hidden. On the outside, he’s built a deck that covers the stairs with a similar push latch that can only be used from the inside. 

That of course doesn’t help them much now, but it seemed like a smart move back then. 

Castiel makes it past the opening and has enough space to stand up and pull the bag along with him. Dean pushes the second bag after him, and Castiel throws both of them over his shoulders, already feeling his back complaining. Weapons are heavy.

Dean crouches down to follow Castiel, when the sound of something rolling down the stairs is heard, and he freezes.

“What is it?” Castiel asks, sure that he’s not going to like the answer.

“Fucking hell! It’s a grenade, run!”

Dean is already shoving himself through the opening, and Castiel is scrambling up the stairs. They won’t make it, they’ll never make it. He can only hope that the reinforced bunker walls will be enough to protect them.

He feels the explosion ripple through his bones before he hears the blast. He’s thrown forward and hits the stairs. For a slow second everything is a dark abyss of pain and ringing, then reality hits him. His whole body throbs with pain, and he can feel blood running from his nose and down his chin, but he’s alive.

The bunker walls held up. 

He throws a silent prayer to God, and he climbs up the last few steps to push the hidden door open and breathe in the clear night air. Lights are on in the Wilson house, and Castiel knows that if they called the police, they have only a few minutes to get away. 

_If_ they can outrun their pursuers.

With a grunt, Castiel throws both bags on the deck, then climbs out himself. He turns around, ready to offer his hand to Dean, only to realize that Dean is lying at the bottom of the stairs, motionless. Castiel can just make out a trail of blood going down his forehead, where he must have hit his head when the explosion threw them both against the stairs. 

Two things happen at the same time. 

The voices of their pursuers are heard loud and clear as they finally make it down the basement to check whether or not Dean and Castiel are dead— _Americans,_ Castiel thinks distantly, _or at least English-speaking_. And Castiel realizes that if he’s going to drag Dean to safety, he’ll have to drop the bag with the guns. And go back down there to retrieve him. And make it back out without their pursuers killing them both.

Shit.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel jumps down the stairs without thinking about it. The cot was blown away with the explosion and has miraculously covered the opening on the wall, hiding them from the men in the basement for now. He doesn’t dare to breathe in relief yet, though. The men are shuffling around the room, kicking stuff out of the way judging from the sounds they’re making.

He presses two trembling fingers to Dean’s neck and feels his weak pulse. Knocked out but alive, then. Thank God.

Being as silent as possible, he manhandles Dean’s limp body as best he can up the stairs with one hand wrapped around his chest to be able to pull him up. Dean’s head lolls to the side, and blood keeps flowing down his face. Castiel swallows down the panic clawing its way up his throat. 

The men sound closer to them now. He hears one of them call his partner over to inspect the cot, and he knows they are running out of time.

He grits his teeth and keeps going. 

Somehow, with strength he didn’t know he possessed, he manages to drag Dean outside. He closes the door, but he knows that will only buy him a few seconds. The men have probably discovered the opening by now and are crawling inside. How long will it take them to figure out how to work the push latch? A few seconds at most. Even if they don’t bother, once they realize Dean and Castiel are not in the basement they are sure to look for them outside.

With one last regretful look at the duffel bag with the guns, Castiel pulls Dean up, holding him upright with a hand around his waist. With his other hand he drapes Dean’s arm over his shoulders so that Castiel’s head is under Dean’s armpit, then he squats and pulls at the same time, and when he stands back up on wobbly legs, Dean’s body is on his shoulders. Never let it be said that he didn’t learn anything useful during the war. 

With his free hand he grabs the bag with the clothes and the extra cash, and he runs. He can hear yelling behind him, but he doesn’t dare turn to see if it’s their pursuers or Mr. Wilson coming to inspect what all the noise is about. Thank God they left their car on the road behind his house, because he doesn’t think he can carry Dean further than that. Or outrun anyone that might give chase.

Sirens rise in the distance, the yelling behind him is abruptly cut off, and Castiel relaxes, knowing that the men after him won’t risk the police catching them. 

Dean doesn’t stir even when Castiel drops him in the backseat. A bloody guy sprawled inside his car is not discreet, but as long as Castiel heads away from the house in the opposite direction from the police he should be fine. 

He gets behind the wheel and drives. He doesn’t know where he’s going yet, but he does know this. He needs to find a place where he can take a better look at Dean’s injury. 

The knowledge that he could have gotten away without a hurt man to look after and more useful weapons than the handgun he has shoved in his waistband sits heavily in his gut. It’s a choice he can’t take back now, however. And he doesn’t think he would even if he could.

* * *

Dean comes to just before the sun rises. 

Castiel is still driving. He hears the groan and the low curse from the back seat and twists himself to look at Dean trying to support his weight on his elbow, a hand clutching his head. 

“What the— where are we? And why is the world spinning?”

“We were ambushed back at my place,” Castiel says. “They threw a grenade at us, and you hit your head. Do you remember any of that?”

“I remember driving to your house to get guns,” Dean replies after a couple of seconds. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Shit, they got me good.”

“We’ll have to stop somewhere. I have to clean your wound, then see if it needs stitching, and you definitely need to lie down. Are you nauseous?”

The corner of Dean’s lips pull up, but it’s more a grimace than a smirk. “I think the dizziness is from your driving,” he says, and Castiel rolls his eyes.

“I just saved your life. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Dean mutters and promptly flops back down. “Ah, shit. A fucking grenade? I can’t believe this. How did we get away?”

“We were lucky.” Castiel doesn’t bother to sugar coat things. 

“I doubt we can keep relying on our luck,” Dean says. The car jostles as they drive over a pothole, and he groans, cursing. “Fucking hell. Try not to drive into every hole you come across, will you? And where the fuck are we?”

“We’re almost at the border.”

Dean sits up abruptly, and the sudden movement must make him dizzy because he pulls a grimace like he’s about to puke. “The border? With Mexico?” He stares out of the window like he can’t believe it.

“I didn’t know where else to go. We need to find some place to stay until you recover, but in case you forgot I’m a wanted criminal.”

“Right. Santa Fe killer and all that shit. Well, if you tell me exactly where we are, I might know a place where they won’t care about your wanted poster.”

Castiel meets Dean’s eyes through the rearview mirror. He looks green with nausea and exhausted under the dried blood that covers half his face. Castiel is ready to pass out too. He’s been driving for hours already, and the adrenaline rush that kept him going at first has long since faded. Only his survival instinct has kept him awake and driving. 

“That place’d better be close,” he mutters.

* * *

The motel Dean takes them to is small and dirty. The mattresses are stained, and there’s water leaking from the corner of the room, but the guy at the front desk accepts cash without asking for their names—or blinking at Dean’s narrowly-escaped-death look—and shoves a crumpled leaflet for pizza of questionable quality at the them along with the keys. Castiel wonders how many outlaws have been through here for the guy to take everything in stride like that. And more importantly, how does someone like _Dean_ know about this place?

Questions, however, have to wait. 

His biggest concern is Dean’s head wound right now. When he manages to get him out of his jacket and shirt—doing his best to ignore all the tan, freckled skin that is revealed in the process—and washes the cut carefully, however, the worry in his stomach unclenches.

Dean hisses at the first touch of the cold, wet towel against his forehead, but the more Castiel cleans it, the more he sees that it’s not too deep after all. And it’s stopped bleeding all on its own, so it won’t need stitches. 

“You’re going to survive,” he says dryly, though relief floods his entire body. He needs all the good news he can get, no matter how small it is.

“Thanks, Doc.” Dean twists and grins up at him, all charm and teasing, and just like that, their faces are inches apart.

Castiel’s breath catches at his throat. The last time they were this close, he was trying to intimidate Dean, but now it feels different. Somewhere between that car hitting the van they were in and someone throwing a grenade at them, Castiel has let his walls down. Now Castiel looks into green eyes and his whole body tingles. It’s dangerous and foolish, and yet so tempting. It’d be so easy when they’re so close, close enough that Castiel can pinpoint the exact moment Dean’s pupils widen and— 

He realizes he’s been staring. For far longer than what is appropriate or necessary.

Castiel jerks away, busying himself by throwing the bloody towel in a water basin he found in the bathroom to hide the way his face heats up. He doesn’t need the way Dean makes him feel, nervous and out of control. It’s dangerous, and a metaphorical spit on Inias’ grave, and worst of all, inevitably out of reach. Dean’s not… Dean’s not like _that._

He takes a deep breath, centers himself. “You should still take it easy for a couple of days. You probably have a concussion.” Dean is watching him with an unreadable expression when Castiel turns to face him again, with a silent intensity that makes Castiel squirm. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He unconsciously brings his hand to his jaw to check, feeling his five-o'clock shadow with his fingertips, and Dean’s eyes follow the motion. They linger on Castiel’s lips for a second too long. 

Castiel’s blood is on fire all over again. “Dean?” The word feels wrenched out of him. It leaves his throat dry and raw. 

At the sound of his name, Dean blinks. He shakes his head, and the spell is broken. Castiel is no longer pinned in place. A shiver traces its warm fingertips up his spine all the same.

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean says hoarsely. “I spaced out for a second there. You were saying.”

“I…” Castiel forces his brain to start working again, slow and sluggish as its gears seem to be. “I just think you should rest for a couple of days. Get some sleep.”

Dean pulls a grimace, half pain, half displeasure, as he prods the edges of his wound with the pads of his fingers. “I don’t think we have the time for resting. How much did we manage to salvage from your house?”

Castiel retrieves the gun from his waistband. “This one and two magazines I slipped into my pocket before dragging you out.” He gestures at the duffel bag on the bed. “Clothes and some cash, but it’s barely enough to cover a couple of nights here and something to eat.”

“That’s all the cash you had in your house?” Dean asks, incredulous.

Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me for not expecting to need a small fortune while on the run from both sides.”

Dean curses. “Did we at least get the evidence you said you had? Those documents we can take to Agent Dylan?”

Castiel shifts his weight uncomfortably. “The documents were not in my house. I kept them hidden elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere? For fuck’s sake, how many secret bunkers did you build?”

“Just the one.” 

Dean’s mouth presses into a thin line, and Castiel realizes it wasn’t a real question. 

Dean sighs. “So where are those documents then?” 

“Trinidad, Colorado.”

“Trinidad,” Dean repeats. “Trinidad as in eight hours in the opposite direction?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Maybe driving all the way out here wasn’t Castiel’s brightest moment, but in his defense he was panicking, running on no sleep and little food, and was also trying to put as much distance between them and any KGB agents out to kill them as he could. The KGB agents were in Santa Fe. He got them out of Santa Fe. There have been worse plans. 

“Right, why make things easy for us anyway?” Dean huffs. He rubs a hand down his face. “Okay, so we have to go to Trinidad and find your hideout there—”

“It’s not really a hideout—”

“Get the evidence and contact Dylan, correct?”

“Correct.” Castiel drops to sit on one of the beds. Exhaustion is catching up to him, and his limbs grow heavy with every passing second. “But even if we leave right away we still need money for gas. And I don’t think we have enough.”

“The room is paid for until tomorrow, right?” Dean waits for Castiel to nod in confirmation before continuing. “Alright. Like you said, I need some rest, and you don’t exactly look fresh yourself. Let’s just stay here for tonight, and tomorrow I might have an idea about where to get easy cash.”

“I’m not robbing a gas station,” Castiel says, narrowing his eyes at Dean. He still remembers Dean ordering him to threaten the cashier if he came to check on them, and it still makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He may be a spy, but he does have some manners.

“Relax, we won’t do anything illegal.” Dean purses his lips in thought. “Well, not _too_ illegal.” He has removed his shoes already and now he pops the button of his pants and pulls them off.

Castiel averts his gaze. He’ll have to get used to this for the couple of days he’ll be stuck with Dean. He’ll also have to be more careful. That slip earlier, that could have been the end of him. Dean’s a nice guy, but Castiel is no fool. He may tolerate Castiel for now since he considers him a hero or something, but if he gets so much as a whiff of Castiel’s inclinations… well, worst case scenario... Castiel _is_ accused of kidnapping Dean, and they have two guns between them. They’d call it self-defense. 

“Earth to Cas. Hello, are you sleeping sitting?” Dean has crawled under the covers of his bed and has a hand behind his head. “Dude, take your clothes off and get some shut eye. You deserve it.”

“Of course,” Castiel says. Mechanically he does as Dean told him, and though his mind goes miles an hour, his body has reached its limit. His eyes drift closed, and he loses himself to fitful sleep.

* * *

Reality filters back to him in hazy blurs. One of those hazy blurs moves around the room, and Castiel blinks, trying to focus on it. On _him._ Broad shoulders, light brown hair, a nasty gash on his forehead. Dean. That’s Dean. 

He pushes himself up, rubs the sleep from his eyes. He feels like he’s been sleeping for days, and when he checks the clock on the nightstand between the beds, he realizes that it hasn’t been _days_ but it’s close.

“Is it… Is it morning again?”

“Evening,” Dean answers. His head wound is red and angry, but he looks clean, like he took a shower. He grabs a pizza box from the desk and leaves it on the bed by Castiel. 

_When did they order pizza?_

“The next evening,” Dean clarifies. He leans with his hip against the desk, arms crossed over his chest in such a way that his biceps bulge under the thin fabric of the undershirt he’s wearing. Castiel also recognizes a pair of his own jeans. 

They fit Dean nicely, he thinks absently, mind still foggy around the edges. “How long was I asleep?”

“Let’s see.” Dean raises his hand and counts on his fingers. “You slept for about twelve hours, then got up last night to piss and eat some of the pizza I’d ordered—I doubt you were actually awake, I couldn’t get anything more than a grunt out of you—and you’ve been dead to the world since then, so I’d say around twenty hours total?”

Castiel groans. He has no recollection of anything after they arrived here. There’s a migraine throbbing behind his eyelids, and his stomach growls loud enough for Dean to chuckle. 

He smiles at Castiel as he crosses the room to drop a cup on the nightstand. “Here’s coffee. Got it from the guy at the front desk. I got another pizza delivered half an hour ago so dig in before it gets cold.”

Castiel goes for the coffee first, and that gets him another laugh from Dean. Usually he’d glare at him on principle alone, but his head is heavy, and he still feels tired, and Dean has a nice laugh, so Castiel lets it slide. 

The coffee is horrible. Coffee in the U.S. is horrible in general, but this particular one tastes like mud. Castiel gulps it down in one go. His taste buds hate him, but the caffeine boost that will soon shoot through his nerve endings more than makes up for it.

Next is pizza; greasy and flavorless, but again, Castiel is not picky. Especially not when he knows they probably can’t afford anything better. Or another meal for that matter.

“So what’s the plan?” he asks between bites.

Dean raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Itching to go already?”

“Itching to clear my name and spend the rest of my life in a boring CIA hideout.”

Dean turns his gaze to the ceiling as if in silent prayer. “I see it wasn’t your humor that got you a ticket to the U.S.”

“No, actually. It was my military record.”

“And the name?” Dean asks, bringing his own cup to his lips. “How did you become Emmanuel Allen?”

Castiel chews slowly as he tries to think how to answer. A little more than a year ago he’d have rather died than tell an American how the KGB operates. Now… now he finds he doesn’t much care to protect anyone. All the people he cared about are dead, most of them killed by the same country they swore to serve. Inias is only the last name in a long list—soldiers, comrades, friends, family. All sacrificed for the greater good. Castiel used to think it was an honorable death. But Inias had done nothing wrong except like kissing boys, and he got executed for that. If anyone had realized that one of those boys was Castiel, he’s sure they’d have dragged him back to Moscow to put him on trial already, if they didn’t arrange for him to be in an accident first. 

He doesn’t owe them anything. 

“Emmanuel Allen was a real person,” he says, addressing the sheet covering him from the waist down. “He was born in Albuquerque in 1921 and died two years later. I don’t know how my handler got his papers or how he made the certificate of his death disappear, but three years ago I was given a folder with his name and a passport. I’ve been Emmanuel ever since. I don’t think I’d heard my name spoken out loud until… until you showed up.”

Dean shrugs. “I like Cas. It suits you.”

“Thanks.” Castiel swallows down the last bite of pizza. Silence stretches between them, but it’s not awkward. It’s almost companionable. Castiel has spent more time with Dean in the past three days than he has with anyone else in the last… God, he wants to say three years, but it’s far longer than that. He didn’t even spend that much time with Inias when he still lived in Moscow. It had been too dangerous. With Dean, though, it’s nice. Effortless. Even with people out to kill them both. 

“So, I know this place,” Dean says, slashing right through Castiel’s thoughts, probably for the better, since they were heading down a dangerous path. “It’s about half an hour from here, serves decent beer and attracts the kind of crowd where even if someone recognizes you from the papers they won’t start pointing fingers.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side confused. “They just… don’t care?”

Dean’s nose creases with distaste. “More like they’ve done far worse than murder.”

“Dean. You’re not suggesting we go hang out with actual criminals.”

Dean raises his arms in a soothing gesture, but it does little to inspire Castiel’s trust. “Hey, I’m not suggesting we hang out with them. I’m only suggesting we go have some fun. You know grab a drink, play pool, stuff like that.” 

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean. It’s hard to keep his suspicion from bleeding through his next words. “I’m not following.”

Dean pushes off the desk to grab a clean shirt from the duffel bag. He winks at Castiel over his shoulder. “Just trust me on this one. By the time we get back we’ll have enough cash to pay for another night here, fill up the tank a few times and even get us some proper food.”

* * *

The glasses are sticky under Castiel’s fingertips as he takes the beers from the bartender and turns to find Dean. He pushes through the crowd gathered around the bar, careful to not let the beer slosh past the rim. The low lights and the hazy, smoke-filled atmosphere make his eyes sting, and by the time he finds Dean by one of the pool tables his throat is dry enough that even piss-tasting beer tastes like nectar.

Dean grabs his glass out of Castiel’s hand and takes a swig, somehow not wincing against the bad taste or commenting on the large amount of foam. In Castiel’s old leather jacket with the top two buttons of his shirt undone he fits right in with the bikers that seem to be the usual patrons of this bar. 

A couple of said bikers are standing opposite Dean, leaning on their cues as they count the last of Castiel and Dean’s money. “Well, better luck next time,” one of them says, flashing a wry grin.

Dean huffs, mouth twisting with irritation. “Oh come on, let’s play one more game. I can feel my luck turning.”

The biker sneers as he eyes Dean from head to toe. Castiel can’t blame him; Dean has given a spectacular show of losing for the past two rounds.

“Just one more round. Triple or nothing,” Dean insists. 

“Do you even have that kind of money?” the guy asks, taking the words right off the tip of Castiel’s tongue.

Dean shrugs. “I don’t, but my friend here is good for it.” He throws an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and gives a squeeze. Heat bleeds through his clothes where they are pressed together, and Dean sways dangerously on the spot. 

Castiel catches him just as he tips forward and raises an eyebrow in question. Not only because the only thing that would fall out of Castiel’s pockets if he pulled them out would be spiders, but also because he knows for a fact that Dean hasn’t had enough beer to get drunk.

Meanwhile, the gazes of the two men are heavy on him as they seem to weigh their options. 

Castiel is conscious of how well-dressed he is for this place, which is probably why the bikers seem to believe Dean and they accept to play that third round.

Dean grins like a child on Christmas morning. He drains his beer in one long swig, head thrown back, throat exposed as his Adam’s apple bobs, an amber drop escaping his lips to glide down his jaw. 

Castiel looks away. This is not the time to get distracted. 

One of the bikers gestures for Dean to break. 

Dean steps forward, and his whole demeanor changes. Gone is any trace of intoxication, and he stalks around the table like a hunter approaching its prey. Even his stance is completely different as he bends, jaw lowered, cue parallel to the table. He spares a moment to glance in Castiel’s direction and wink.

It takes Dean less than ten minutes to win. After, he blows on the edge of his cue as if it's a gun, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

Slowly, almost numbly, the two bikers leave a small fortune on the table. 

Castiel, feeling just as bewildered, gathers his jaw from the floor. He watches, unable to understand what just happened, as Dean counts the bills.

"Alright, now that's what I'm talking about," Dean says. "You guys wanna go for another round? What do you say? I'll even buy y'all beers."

He stuffs the bills into his pocket and grabs Castiel by the bicep, steering him towards the bar.

"How—" Castiel starts, but Dean cuts him off.

"Pretend we're going to get drinks until they lose us in the crowd, then we get the hell out of here. Hurry, before they realize we hustled them."

Castiel obeys. 

The door slips shut behind them just as the first roaring protests rise inside the bar—the bikers looking to get their money back without a doubt. Took longer than Castiel expected. 

Dean bursts out laughing as they run to their car, face flushed and glowing. His eyes are still wrinkled at the corners as they drive away as fast as they can, and Castiel can barely look away. 

“Look at that,” Dean says loud and boisterous as he takes the money out of his pocket to throw them on the space between them. “Enough money for gas, food, and a week of staying at motels. Damn, I think this deserves a celebration.”

He turns to Castiel as if asking for permission.

It’s impossible to say no.

* * *

They make it to the motel with two six packs of beer and two bottles of whiskey, courtesy of the first liquor store they came across while passing through a small town on their way back. Dean’s in high spirits, running high on adrenaline and drunk on his victory already. It reminds Castiel of when he came back from the war, when for a couple of weeks everything was reason enough for a celebration. When he’d first found the courage to close the space between him and Inias after spending almost a year looking from afar. The memory of hurried hands and fiery kisses floods him after that and sours his mood, so when Dean thrusts a beer into his hand Castiel chugs it down in one go. It leaves his fingertips tingling and his head slightly lighter. Another one and he’s sure to feel better.

Dean laughs. “Hey, wait for me.” And he snatches the bottle Castiel was reaching for before hurrying to catch up by taking a large gulp. 

They drop the rest of bottles on the bed between them and lie side by side, eyes on the ceiling. Dean passes the half-empty beer back to Castiel, fingers brushing, and he says, “I can’t believe I’ve still got it.”

Castiel brings the shared bottle to his lips, that small swig turning his insides fuzzy and warm in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol running through his veins. He shakes his head, struggling to find the words for all he wants to ask.

“How?” he says finally, and he hopes that’s enough for Dean to understand.

“How did I get so good at pool?”

“Yes, but also no. How do you know to hustle bikers out of a month’s worth of money? How did you know about that bar to begin with, or this motel? And let’s not even talk about stealing cars.”

Dean laughs again, the sound rich and hearty. “I have to admit that I used to be kind of a bad boy back in the day.”

Castiel snaps his head around so fast he almost pulls a muscle. “A bad boy? Mr U.S. Marshal has a criminal record?”

“Hey, it’s nothing like that,” Dean is quick to say. “My dad, he, uh, he was a bounty hunter back in the day. Used to take my brother and me with him on the job. Learned a lot while travelling around with him.” He must catch the way Castiel’s eyes are about to fall out of their sockets because he hurries to add, “I was pretty young back then, and I never actually hunted down anyone myself, but I picked up a few tricks here and there. It’s easier to find a criminal when you know what he’s thinking or where he’ll go next.”

He rolls to his side and wrestles the bottle out of Castiel’s hand again, some of the beer spilling on the sheet. Neither is bothered by it.

Castiel huffs, pretending to be offended. In truth it’d be the easiest thing to open another beer for himself, but he kind of enjoys this weird game they are playing. 

“That explains why you look more comfortable in my old leather jacket than your suit.” He lets his eyes glide down Dean’s body as he says that, too dazed to care if Dean notices. “I used to be a bit of a rebel myself, before I joined the military.”

“That’s bullshit.” Dean finishes off the bottle and throws it on the ground carelessly. He opens the next, takes a gulp and wipes the side of his lips with the back of his hand. “You’re a goody-two shoes with a stick so far up his ass you wouldn’t know what to do if someone finally took it out.”

“I’ll remind you that I’m a spy,” Castiel says, raising an eyebrow. This time it’s his turn to steal the bottle out of Dean’s hand. If he has to struggle a little longer, letting his fingers linger over Dean’s skin, then it’s because his limbs are already slow and uncoordinated. 

“You painted landscapes and turned documents to microfilms,” Dean complains. “You’re a glorified librarian.”

“A glorified librarian who’s wanted for murder.”

“Which is a lie,” Dean points out. Then he pauses, mouth going slack like a new thought just occurred to him. “But you’re a veteran, so I guess that does make you badass.”

“And you?” Castiel asks. “Did you serve in Europe?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. I was already a Marshal back then. I stayed here to fight a different side of the war. You’re not the first Soviet spy I’ve met, actually.”

Castiel chuckles, the sound bitter in the back of his throat. “Lucky you.”

Dean goes quiet. He brings the bottle to his lips but doesn’t really drink. Then: “My brother served in Europe. He was drafted pretty late, but the things he saw… He wasn’t the same person when he came back. Sometimes I think he left a part of him there, and he’ll never be whole again.”

Castiel watches the ceiling long enough that white spots start dancing in his vision. “I’m sorry. At least he came back.”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. I’m grateful he’s alive and well every day. Things could have been so much worse.”

Castiel hums. He accepts the bottle Dean holds out for him. “What’s he like? Your brother I mean.”

Dean grins, wide and without a care in the world, and his whole face is illuminated by it. He starts a long monologue about a boy named Sammy who spends way too much time with his nose stuck in books and has hair that is in dire need of a haircut. Dean talks and Castiel listens, and before they know it they’re drinking the last bottle of whiskey. 

The room is littered with bottles, discarded on the floor as soon as their last drop of alcohol was gone, and Castiel’s body is impossibly heavy. He can’t remember how, but at some point he climbed off the bed, and he’s now sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, head resting against the mattress behind him. 

The room is possibly spinning. It’s hard to tell. 

A bottle lands next to him, the thud distant and muted. Castiel looks at it, trying to figure out where it came from, before a leg comes into view. Dean slides down to sit cross-legged next to him. He settles down, resting his weight against Castiel so that they’re pressed together from shoulder to elbow, almost hip to hip. Dean’s knee lands on Castiel’s thigh, and he has neither the strength nor the desire to push him off. 

“I think we’re out of alcohol,” Dean says very seriously. His brows draw together in confusion as he takes the room around them.

Castiel just stares at him. At his straight nose, his plush lips, the sharp line of his jaw. He gets stuck at the freckles peppered over his cheekbone, trying to count them, but that only makes Castiel dizzier. Dean has a lot of freckles. 

“You know,” Dean says, tilting his head to catch Castiel’s gaze. “I’m not usually like that.”

“Insufferable?” Castiel offers.

Dean chuckles.

“Rude?” Castiel continues guessing. “An asshole?”

“It’s nice to know you think so highly of me,” Dean cuts him off, rolling his eyes. He elbows Castiel at the side, too. “But no. What I meant was, I’m not usually this unprofessional. I don’t drink while on the job, I don’t spill my guts out like that, I don’t—I don’t get attached.”

The words sober up Castiel a bit, and he tries to sit straight. He cocks his head to the side, considering Dean, even as his heartbeat speeds up. He probably heard wrong, because so far, he hasn’t seen any signs of Dean getting attached. “You… what?”

Dean scoffs, as if he’s trying to downplay his confession, though he can’t stop fidgeting. “Look, you’re not exactly friendly or, I don’t know, _likable_ , but… but you’re a nice dude, I guess. You’re risking your life for the greater good or whatever, and I was supposed to protect you, but we’re in this mess because my department wasn’t—and I—” He struggles for a second. Rubs the back of his neck. When he speaks again he’s addressing the empty space between his knees. “I’ll see this to the end, no matter what, because...”

Castiel’s stomach does a weird somersault and gets lodged right under his throat, pulsing with anticipation. When Dean lifts his gaze to pin Castiel in place, he’s left breathless.

“Because this is personal now. I—I care about what happens to you, okay?”

Castiel blames the alcohol. Because there’s seriously no other way he’d ever, _ever,_ even consider what happens next. But with his brain covered in fog, his muscles loose and relaxed and Dean barely a breath away, it’s the easiest thing in the world for Castiel to close the distance between them. 

He presses his lips against Dean’s, or rather the corner of his mouth, because he misjudges the distance a bit, and he can feel it when Dean gasps against his mouth in surprise. 

A hand fists into his shirt and Castiel is jerked back. Some of the haziness clears, and he finds Dean staring at him with hard eyes. There’s a muscle vibrating under his jaw, and the hand holding Castiel at arm’s length is shaking. His other hand is curled into a fist in his lap, and Castiel can almost imagine the countdown to the moment Dean’s control snaps and he slams his fist right into Castiel’s nose. 

Castiel’s blood runs cold.

What the fuck did he just do? This is Dean Winchester, a total stranger, the _enemy_ , and he’s not like that, he’s not like Castiel or like Inias, and he has a gun on him, or at least close to him and— 

Dean’s dark eyes fall to Castiel’s mouth, giving Castiel palpitations. Then he jerks Castiel forward slamming their mouths together aggressively, almost possessively, tongue tracing the seam of Castiel’s lips. 

Castiel sits frozen, before his instincts take over, following the direction his blood sets as it rushes through him fast and hot and moving south. Dean pulls Castiel impossibly closer by his shirt, and Castiel grabs the back of his neck to force him to change the angle, deepening the kiss. It’s urgent and rough, and it sets Castiel’s body on fire. Dean’s hands leave a sizzling path on his body as they pull and tag and explore, twist Castiel until he’s straddling Dean’s lap, arms around his neck. Castiel sinks down, feeling Dean hard in his pants and he gasps. 

This is happening. 

Dean is hard, Dean _wants_ him.

As if to punctuate that thought, Dean bites a mark on Castiel’s neck as he uses a hand on Castiel’s ass to roll their hips together. The slight pain makes everything sharper, makes Castiel desperate to tilt his entire body into Dean, so that there’s no part of them that is not touching. It makes him start to strip Dean furiously as he fights to uncover as much freckled skin as fast as he can and map every angle and contour with his tongue and teeth. 

A low, guttural noise escapes Dean, and Castiel is lost. All thoughts fizzle out. There’s nothing else in the world except for the way Dean’s breath hitches when Castiel nuzzles his head to the side and pulls the lobe of his ear into his mouth and sucks. Nothing else in the world except for the way Dean thrusts up to meet Castiel halfway when he rolls his hips down, chasing that electrifying friction that makes his brain leak down his spine. Nothing else in the world except for the way Dean’s hips buck wildly, rutting against Castiel when he flicks a thumb over his nipple. And all of that is nothing compared to the way Dean looks up at Castiel, eyes wide and dark, the green almost disappearing completely around his blown pupils. Nothing compared to the way Castiel’s whole body aches when Dean manages to undo Castiel’s pants and pulls him out, jacking him with a firm, tight fist, twisting every time he reaches the head, thumb pressing over the slit and making Castiel see stars. 

He curses, attacking Dean’s mouth with his own again, and he fumbles to free Dean’s cock from his underwear, to feel the firm warmth of Dean’s dick in his hand. Their kissing turns sloppy as they gasp into each other’s mouth, and Dean rolls them over, throwing Castiel to the floor and hovering above him, reaching between them to grab onto both of their dicks and jack them together. 

Castiel moans, rocking into Dean’s hand and feeling their cocks slide together. Tension coils low in his groin, and he twists and aches and muffles his cries into Dean’s neck until the world snaps in half, everything exploding behind his closed eyelids, and he comes and comes as Dean keeps jerking him through it. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean cries right before spilling all over Castiel’s stomach, only adding to the mess already there. 

Dean collapses heavily on Castiel, and they lie together on the floor, drunk and spent and breathless. 


	5. Chapter 5

The atmosphere in the car as they drive away from the motel is stifling, heavy with the silence that has been festering between them since Castiel woke up naked and confused as to why he was sore all over and sleeping on the floor, until very vibrant, and very pornographic memories of last night assaulted him. 

Maybe hiding in the bathroom trying to talk himself out of a panic attack before Dean woke up wasn’t the grown up thing to do. But it was the best way he knew to deal with the situation, so he wasn't going to second guess himself. 

When he’d finally shuffled out, Dean was sitting on his bed, cleaning his gun. 

“‘Morning,” Dean said without looking up.

“Good morning,” Castiel answered, glad both of them were dressed. He could pretend things were normal as long as they had several layers of clothes and several feet of empty air between them. And as long as that gun was not pointed in his direction. 

They haven’t exchanged a word since. By some unspoken agreement, they got in the car early in the morning and started on the journey to Trinidad. 

The road stretches out ahead of them, long and endless, and Castiel is already itching to get out of the car. He can’t look at Dean. He _won’t_ look at Dean, because then he’ll be reminded that he knows what Dean tastes like and what his face looks like when he comes, and this is one crisis too many for him to deal with right now. He just can’t. He has his goal. He has his plan. He knows how to get from point A to point B, and even though it’s not a straight line, it’s one he can follow. Dean’s not on that line. Dean’s not even on the same plane as that line.

He shouldn’t let his emotions get in the way, and more importantly, there shouldn’t have been any emotions in the first place. Cas is doing this for Inias. He won’t betray his memory and what they had for a night of carnal pleasure. Castiel is better than that. Inias _deserves_ better. What happened last night was a mistake. A horrible, irresponsible, selfish—

Dean hits the wheel with his palm. “For fuck’s sake, I can practically hear your internal freak out.”

“I am not freaking out,” Castiel lies, staring at the horizon hard enough that his eyes start to water.

“Oh yeah, no. You’re the poster boy for nonchalance, how could I not notice?” 

“I think I liked it better when you didn’t talk.”

“I bet you did. You’re just happy pretending nothing happened at all, aren’t you? Did you seriously think we weren’t going to talk about it?”

“It?” Castiel asks, desperate to not have this conversation.

“‘It’ as in you and me fucking on the floor of a dirty motel room—” Castiel closes his eyes, cheeks heating up, but Dean continues without remorse, “—surrounded by enough empty bottles of alcohol to make an entire squad pass out.”

“What is there to talk about?” Castiel manages to say, his voice hoarse and strained even to his own ears.

Dean runs a hand through his short hair, lips thinning. “I don’t know. I mean, are you okay?”

Castiel snaps his head around, so blindsided by that question that he forgets he’s not supposed to be looking at Dean. Of all the things he expected to hear, this never made it on the list. 

“What?”

“Look, you were pretty drunk, it’s been a close call a couple of times now and sometimes all that stress can make you do things you normally wouldn’t. You had some steam to blow, clearly, and I—I wasn’t drunk exactly, at least not like you, but I—” He shakes his head, takes a breath. 

“Clearly I’m not the one freaking out,” Castiel says. 

“You won’t make this easy for me, will you?” Dean groans.

“Last night was a mistake,” Castiel tells him firmly. “We both got carried away, and it shouldn’t happen again. Is that enough of a ‘ _talk_ ’ for you?”

Dean snorts. “Okay, first of all, don’t use finger quotes, it’s lame. And secondly, how is that enough of a talk?”

“It’s all you’re getting out of me.” Castiel crosses his arms over his chest like the mature adult he is and turns his back to Dean. He can hear him muttering something under his breath, but Castiel is intent on ignoring him for the few hours it’ll take them to reach their destination. 

There’s the sound of Dean fiddling with the radio, followed by static noise and incoherent fragments of songs, before he finds an acceptable station. Music fills the car. Dean hums along after a while, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. At least they don’t have to endure the awkward silence any longer, Castiel figures, letting his shoulders slump. 

It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. They’ll get to Trinidad, and they’ll make contact with Dylan and then this nightmare will be over. He just has to brave through this car ride. 

One song blends into the next, the fast-paced, raucous music Dean seems to favor antagonizing the roar of the engine as the car speeds down the road for a good hour. Some of the songs Castiel actually recognizes from records Inias had. Songs Inias used to play loud enough to make the walls of his house vibrate and Hannah scream at the top of her lungs, begging him to turn it off. Songs Inias sang off-key, sometimes only humming because he couldn’t remember the words or didn’t understand them. Western songs, most of them blacklisted. 

That thought makes him crack a smile. Now that he thinks about it, maybe Inias was a bit of a rebel after all. 

The next song starts with the scratchy riff of an electric guitar. A couple of notes in and Castiel’s chest is burning. He doesn’t have to wait for the first line to recognize this one.

It was Inias’ favorite.

How many times did Castiel hear Inias hum this tune under his breath in the couple of years they were together before Castiel was sent overseas? Countless. If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear him. He can almost replay in his mind the way Inias would sing the song. The way the singer starts a couple of seconds before Inias joined in, the way Inias’ voice deepened, became huskier as he sang. 

Dean starts singing along, and Castiel blinks his eyes open.

With Dean almost louder than the singer it’s harder to keep the memory of Inias’ voice in his mind. It slips away like sand through his fingers. Every line that Dean sings is one line that Castiel can’t quite remember how it would sound coming from Inias’ lips. Another line and he can’t be sure if his memory from seconds ago was correct at all. It feels like the pitch was wrong, the tone different. His lungs squeeze painfully as Castiel realizes he can’t remember.

The song rises and falls, and Dean raises his voice along, belts the next line like his life depends on it, and Castiel can’t breathe.

He can’t remember. It’s been years since he last saw Inias and now he’ll never see him again and he can’t even remember the sound of his voice. Bile burns his throat on its way up. He throws a hand out, reaching blindly for the handle of the door. 

“Hey, dude, what the fuck?” Dean asks, grabbing his shoulder to pull him back. “The car is still moving.”

Castiel doesn’t care. His heartbeat is loud and erratic in his chest. His vision has gone dark around the edges. It’s been a year since he got the news, but it still hurts like a knife lodged between his ribs. He needs to get out. He needs fresh air, and he needs to breathe, because right now he’s suffocating. The more time he spends in this car the more likely it is that he’ll throw up. 

The car screeches to a stop just as Castiel manages to throw the door open. He staggers outside on wobbly feet. A few steps is all he can manage before he doubles over, hands on his knees, eyes closed, waiting for his stomach to finish emptying its contents on the side of the road. 

Whoever’s looking down on him shows some mercy. The radio stops abruptly along with the engine. A door opens and closes.

Castiel gags and coughs, trying to catch his breath, all the while conscious of Dean’s eyes burning a hole through his back. When he’s finally done and he can trust his legs again, he straightens his back and cleans the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“You okay?” Dean is standing with his elbows on the roof of the car. Only his hunched shoulders betray his nervousness.

“I’m fine,” Castiel says. He’s relieved when his voice doesn’t crack. “Let’s get going.”

Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, searching Castiel’s face. “Are you sure? You look a little pale. We can take a break if you want.”

“I don’t want to stop. I want to keep going. I’m fine.” Castiel stomps back to the car and reclaims his seat, slamming the door closed after him. His vision is a little blurry around the edges, and his entire body aches with how much he misses Inias, but he can control it. He is okay. Or he will be. Eventually.

Dean bends over to stare at him, hesitating. 

Castiel sticks his jaw out stubbornly.

Dean sighs, but he gets behind the wheel and starts the engine again. They make it a whole mile before he says, “Was it your first time with a man? Is that why you’re freaking out?”

“I’m not freaking out! Will you let it go already?” Castiel explodes. He still feels raw and exposed and too vulnerable to deal with Dean. 

“Yeah, your mouth’s saying one thing, and your reaction a whole other, so excuse me for trying to make sure that you’re still in the right headspace to keep us alive and reach our destination.”

Castiel hates that Dean sounds reasonable. He hates it with a passion. Which is why he chooses to stay silent yet again. It worked before after all.

Except Dean’s not intent on staying silent, too, this time around. “I get it, not everyone understands. People like… like _that_ need to keep their head low, be careful. Stay out of trouble.”

There’s a pause, during which Dean is probably waiting for Castiel to elaborate. 

Castiel won’t.

So Dean goes on. “Hell, I love women, and I mean I love everything about them, but if anyone knew that I… that I like men, too, my career would be over. At the very least.” He laughs, a bitter and hollow sound, eyes lingering on Castiel’s mouth a split second too long. “I’ve never told anyone this. Shit, I’ve done plenty of things with men but I’ve never admitted it out loud. It’s just not an option. I don’t imagine it’s easier for you back home. If you’re… you know.”

Dean’s eyes are heavy on Castiel every time he glances away from the road. He taps his fingers on the wheel in the most irritating way possible and soon enough it’s awkward enough in the car that Castiel considers jumping out again and walking the rest of the way to Trinidad. 

Talking suddenly seems a far better option than being stuck inside his own head. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe me being stressed has everything to do with being a wanted criminal and a moving target for trained Soviet agents and nothing to do with you? Did you ever think that? Or is your ego that big that just because you gave me a hand job I must be pining after you now?” 

“Hey, no one said anything about pining,” Dean says defensively. “And you know what, you don’t have to be an asshole all the time. It’d be nice if I didn’t feel like I’m being put on the spot all the time. I’m only trying to help you.”

“You don’t have to talk to help me,” Castiel points out. And just because he’s a little shit, he adds, “I distinctly remember that your agency helping me is the root of all of my problems.”

Dean’s brows rise to meet his hairline. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yes. If only you weren’t incompetent idiots that can’t even keep a secret we wouldn’t be here right now,” Castiel says, happy to channel all his frustration into an argument, however unfair he knows he’s being.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” Dean shoots back. “Aren’t you the professional liar between us? Also the one who came running to us for help and protection?”

“Clearly a mistake on my part. I should have just gone straight to the papers and watched the world burn.”

“Well, maybe you should have,” Dean says, nostrils flaring. “Would have saved all of us a lot of trouble _and_ money when you’d have ended up dead in a ditch barely hours after the newspapers were distributed.”

Castiel scoffs. “I’m sorry to disappoint you with my being alive still.”

Dean’s mouth presses into a thin line as he shakes his head. Instead of an answer he turns the music louder, effectively ending their conversation.

Castiel had the last word. He considers that a win as he settles back in his seat—definitely not sulking—and watching the unchanging view of the desert. Just a few more hours.

The barren scenery boils under the scorching sun as they keep driving, staying away from any big cities where the chances of someone recognizing Castiel are higher. The silence lays over them heavy, made worse by the radio that is still blaring. No one is singing now, though. 

At last, Dean pulls in front of the motel they’ll be staying for the night. They could have easily reached Trinidad today, but Castiel is not about to step foot in that town unprepared. They need to find a new car first, then make sure no one is following them. Not that they’ve seen anyone since they’ve left Santa Fe. But one can never be too careful. 

He climbs out of the car and closes the door, only to find Dean standing by the car and watching him, shoulders hunched. He looks tired. 

“For the record, I’m not disappointed you’re alive,” he says, holding Castiel’s gaze. “And I’m sorry for everything I said earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

“No you shouldn’t have,” Castiel agrees, turning to face him slowly. The sun is sinking slowly in the distance, painting Dean in soft, warm hues and golden shades. It’s almost blinding to look at him, not in the least because Castiel knows that he’s as much at fault for their fight as Dean. Maybe a bit more. “I’m sorry, too. I antagonized you on purpose, hoping that would make you shut up.”

Dean’s done nothing but look out for him. He helped Castiel escape a death trap and stuck with him through a second ambush that almost cost Dean his life. Many of the men Castiel served with, his brothers in arms, wouldn’t have done so much for him. An apology for being a dick is the least Castiel owes him. 

In response to it, Dean drops his head to his chest, chuckling. “Yeah, good luck with that. My brother has been trying to make me shut up for thirty years already, and he still hasn’t succeeded.”

An irrepressible smile splits Castiel’s face. “I’m surprised he hasn’t murdered you yet.”

“He has tried, believe me.” Dean grins at Castiel, squinting against the sun. “So, truce?”

“For now,” Castiel allows. He raises an eyebrow. “But only because I need you to go and find us something to eat.”

“Ah, I’ve been tricked,” Dean laughs, tapping his hand on the roof of the car. “I think we passed a drive-through a few miles back. I could get us burgers and a couple of beers. What do you say?”

“We haven’t eaten anything today. I’d be happy even if you gave me a moldy sandwich.”

“Moldy sandwich. Duly noted.” Dean raises two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, before he gets back into the car. “Don’t get in trouble while I’m away,” he calls as the car roars to life. 

Castiel rolls his eyes. And just because he knows Dean’s probably watching him in the rearview mirror, he flips him off over his back as he walks towards the motel to get them a room. 

While he waits for Dean to get back, he makes sure the curtains are drawn, the door locked and no window is left open. He takes his gun apart and carefully cleans it, going through the motions with practiced ease. It’s a ritual that helps center and calm him. With the weight of a gun in his hand he feels better prepared to face any situation life throws at him. Guns haven’t failed him yet. He only hopes he still has a good aim. There was no opportunity to keep up with his shooting practice in the last few years. 

The roar of the car signals Dean’s return a couple of hours later, and Castiel ushers him into the room, checking outside. No human in sight. No car either. So far it doesn’t look like anyone knows they’re here. And yet, Castiel can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

His stomach chooses that moment to remind him he’s ready to collapse from hunger, and Castiel retreats back to the room. Maybe it’s all in his head. Exhaustion and low blood sugar are every man’s worst enemy. 

“How many beers did you get?” he asks, watching as Dean empties the contents of the two bags he brought with him on the rickety desk. There are the burgers Dean promised, of course, and some fries, and several bottles of alcohol. 

“No truce is real until you toast on it,” Dean declares, using the edge of the desk to pop two bottles open before passing one to Castiel. He holds the other out towards Castiel in clear invitation. “So, peace?”

“Peace,” Castiel says, clanking their bottles together and taking a sip. It’s not half bad. “Do we really need two dozen beers for a toast, though.”

“For a toast no. For a drinking game though,” Dean trails off, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“We’re not getting drunk again,” Castiel says flatly, and Dean raises his hands in surrender.

“No one’s getting drunk. Besides, I’ll stay in my bed, you’ll be in yours and as long as neither of us moves, we’re golden. Come on, we need to unwind a bit. How many opportunities to have fun do you think you’ll get once you’re dealing with courthouses and testimonies, huh?”

None, actually. Not that Castiel was ever one to care about having fun. 

But… he has to concede, Dean does have a point. If everything goes according to plan… this might not only be his last night of fun but his last night of freedom as well. In the best case scenario. 

“Fine,” he relents dropping to his bed, beer hanging loosely from his fingers. “What game do you want to play?”

“Never have I ever,” Dean answers without missing a beat. He practically bounces on his own bed before sitting cross-legged on it, facing Castiel with such an eager expression that doubts start gnawing at Castiel immediately.

Again, however, he’s hungry and tired and probably overthinking this. They won’t be drinking that much. What’s the worst that can happen? 

“You start,” he tells Dean, unwrapping his burger. It smells divine. He takes a bite and moans at the juicy meat and tangy flavor of tomatoes that explode inside his mouth. When he opens his eyes again, Dean’s staring at him. “Sorry. It’s a good burger.”

Something like a shudder goes through Dean, but he quickly shakes himself out of it, face morphing back into a teasing smile. “Alright, here’s an easy one. Never have I ever been to Europe.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I _am_ from Europe, remember?”

Dean shrugs. “Sucks to be you then. Take a drink.”

Castiel stares daggers at Dean but complies. “My turn right? Never have I ever shot a gun.” He knows how to play dirty.

“That’s a lie. You gotta drink, too.” An accusing finger pointed at Castiel, Dean brings the bottle to his lips. He watches from the corner of his eye until Castiel follows his example. 

“Never have I ever…” Dean trails off, eyes scanning the room for inspiration. “Never have I ever been inside an airplane.”

Castiel gapes at him. “Seriously? Never?”

“Never had a reason, too. Plus, those things are fucking death traps. I’d rather drive everywhere.”

“Good luck once you come across a body of water,” Castiel chuckles. He drinks. Then stares at Dean trying to get an idea of what to say. This is like a guessing game, and he hates guessing games. He thinks back to what Dean told him about growing up with his father, travelling the whole country hunting down criminals. “Never have I ever been arrested.”

“Eh, neither have I. Though with how much I used the five-finger discount it’s a miracle. Now _you_ have to drink since you guessed wrong,” Dean says, grinning like a mad person. He’s too happy about that, Castiel knows, and it only fuels his determination to get Dean to drink more than him.

“Never have I ever fought with my brother.”

“It’s not your turn,” Dean points out, but he does drink. “Really, never?”

“I don’t have a brother.” His smile must be insufferable, and Dean huffs in annoyance as if to prove it. 

They go back and forth long after both their burgers are nothing more but a distant memory, empty bottles of beer creating an increasingly taller pile on the floor between their beds. Dean manages to make Castiel confess that he once laughed so hard he peed his pants a little—the most embarrassing story of Castiel's life to this date—while Castiel learns that Dean jumped off a roof once with his brother and then had to take his brother to a hospital for his broken arm. 

Dean's full of funny stories and anecdotes. By the time they are down to their last bottles, Castiel is sure that he's laughed more in the span of the last hour than in the last decade. With his body feeling warm and fuzzy from all the beer—which he swore he wouldn't drink but, oh well, worse things have happened—it doesn't even occur to him to feel any sort of pity for himself for that revelation. He's having way too much fun to let a thought like that ruin his mood.

"Never have I ever been attracted to someone from work," Dean says.

"What if we were both serving in the same squad?" Castiel blurts out, mouth running faster than his brain. Cold runs down his spine the moment he realizes what he just said, panic rising hot up his throat, begging for him to take it back.

Dean just laughs. He points his bottle at Castiel. "Totally counts, Cas. Drink up."

Castiel does so slowly. "I have never admitted to a stranger I like men," he mutters, the bottle still resting against his lips.

Dean's face softens. "I'm not a stranger. But I'll drink to that." He reaches forward in the space between them, clanking his bottle against the one hanging limply from Castiel's hand. Then he pulls back and brings the bottle to his mouth, head thrown back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. His lips are shiny and pink when he's finished.

Castiel hasn't even made the effort to pretend to drink. He can't tear his eyes away.

"Never have I ever…" Dean starts. 

Castiel doesn't care to listen to the rest of that sentence. He's slightly tipsy but nowhere near as drunk as he was last night. The room sways gently when he gets up and walks the small distance to Dean's bed, but Castiel feels clear-headed.

The way Dean's eyes always seem to linger on him is not a fragment of Castiel's imagination or a result of their drinking game. He knows that look. The look of hunger and dark desire. He knows what Dean wants and what this game is, and maybe the whole-body tingling of the alcohol pushes him to make the decision, but it's entirely conscious on his part. At this moment Castiel decides that if this is the last night he'll spend free then he'll go all out. 

Dean's eyes widen when Castiel climbs into his bed and crawls towards him. "You—"

"Shut up," Castiel commands. He grabs Dean's beer and throws it off the bed, not caring about it spilling on the floor or about the stain it'll probably leave on the carpet. 

Castiel wants, and Castiel is going to take.

Both hands framing Dean's face, he closes the distance between them. 

Dean doesn't hesitate this time. Eyes fluttering closed, he grabs Castiel's bicep, pulls him closer until Castiel is sitting on his lap. It's slow but insistent, heat building up steadily between them. Dean kisses him to breathlessness, hands roaming, pulling and tugging at clothes to expose as much skin as possible.

Castiel presses Dean down on the mattress and uses his mouth to explore every contour of Dean's body. He memorizes all the little details that his inebriated mind didn't notice their first time. The freckles that go down Dean's shoulders. The way Dean's breath hitches when Castiel frees him of his underwear. The velvety weight of him on Castiel's tongue. There's no hurry or desperation this time around. Castiel takes his time to savor every little sound, every inch of skin that he can reach, drawing this out until it's torturously slow, taking and taking and taking. His last night of freedom will be mind-blowingly memorable, he will make sure of that.

Dean bucks his hips up, chases the heat of Castiel's mouth, soft curses falling from his lips. The green in his eyes has almost entirely disappeared around his blown pupils, and the sight of him wrecked and begging makes fire burn through Castiel's veins.

He takes Dean deep into his throat with renewed determination, swallows around him, and he feels the way Dean's thighs tremble.

"Shit, Cas, I'm gonna—fuck—you should—shit, shit, shit—" 

Dean's mumbles become increasingly incomprehensible, until Cas reaches with his hand to grab his balls and roll them into his palm. Head thrown back, Dean groans and shoots thick strings of come into Castiel's eager mouth, shaking and trembling through his orgasm. 

Castiel wipes the corner of his mouth where a drop of semen has escaped him with the back of his hand. He stares at Dean, sprawled gorgeous and flushed and panting hard under him, and he feels powerful. Finally, he feels in control.

As if reading his mind, Dean cracks an eye open. "Come here," he says hoarsely, gesturing with his hands, and Castiel obliges. He moves until he's straddling Dean's chest, knees planted on the mattress on either side of Dean's arms, and lets Dean guide him into his mouth.

It feels so good Castiel almost cries. Dean's mouth is hot and wet, and he makes lightning zap down Castiel's spine every time his tongue circles the head of Castiel's cock. 

A hand on Castiel's hip, Dean looks up at Castiel, and he's sin personified. Pink, plush lips wrapped around Castiel, half-lidded eyes dark with desire, cheeks hollowed. He gives Castiel's side a gentle tap, letting his jaw go slack, surrendering himself to Castiel completely. Castiel's fingers thread through short light brown hair, pulling Dean's head further back and holding it exactly where he wants it. Then he starts thrusting forward, gently at first, experimentally, but soon losing himself to the sensation. Dean lets him use his mouth for his pleasure, taking Castiel so deep so easily that it makes something coil tight in the base of Castiel's spine. 

Pressure builds as he picks up his speed. His thighs tremble, sweat beading at his forehead, and he fucks into the silky heat again and again, feels the vibration of Dean humming in encouragement around him, and he aches for release. He aches and he needs, and the pressure building inside him lengthens and tightens and pulls taut until it snaps. 

He comes with a cry, thrusting deeper until Dean gags but doesn't pull away. He swallows everything and keeps swallowing until Castiel's too sensitive for it.

Body numb and spent, Castiel drops next to Dean and tries to catch his breath. 

They should definitely talk this time, he knows, but darkness is already closing in on him, and the warmth of Dean next to him is so comforting. 

Talking can wait for a few more hours, he decides.

* * *

Castiel is wrapped in old sheets and a comforting warmth that’s both familiar and not at the same time, but it feels so _right_ he doesn’t bother to question it. There’s a weight on his lower body, pinning him to the bed. Inias hooking his leg over him again, no doubt. 

Eyes still closed, Castiel buries his face into the pillow, basking in the hazy moment between sleep and waking. He feels light and unburdened. Happy. They have plans for later in the day, but he wants to savor this moment for now. It's not everyday he and Inias can actually spend the whole night together. They had dinner last night, hidden in the shadows of the rooftop of the apartment building Inias lives at. No one ever goes up there, and it has a beautiful view, so it's the perfect date spot. They brought a picnic basket with them, filled with food and drinks, and a soft blanket they shared to fight off the chilly night air. He can still taste the beers they shared while stargazing. He can still conjure the image of stars reflected in Inias' brown eyes.

A thought tiny like a pinhead prickles him, but it's too far away and the bed so comfortable that the thought slips away from him. He lets his mind get lost in the memory, not quite awake yet.

The body next to him moves closer. Puffs of warm air hit Castiel's ear with every exhale, and he huffs in annoyance. Rolling over, he cracks an eye open to find a freckled face inches away from his own. Green eyes flutter open for a moment, blinking at him, before they surrender to sleep again.

Some of the fog clears. Memories surface slowly. Not memories of his date on the roof. Memories of another night. A different bed, different person.

Dean. It's Dean sleeping next to him. It's Dean he spent the night with, and it should be wrong but it isn't. He chose this. He willingly betrayed Inias. Inias who is dead, who was murdered, who Castiel swore to avenge. Castiel betrayed him, and there's a big part of him that doesn't regret it, not even in the light of day, and there's an equal part of him that burns with shame. His chest constricts, bile rising up his throat. 

Despite his shaky hands, Castiel somehow manages to untangle himself from Dean’s body and roll out of bed. He staggers to the bathroom on unsteady feet, where he collapses against the sink, nauseous and sweating, shoulders hunched, spine curled. His lungs are burning, and he gasps for air, tries to get some oxygen into his body, but it does little to fill the sharp pain between his ribs. 

Droplets fall to the sink. First one. Then another one, then more. Still dizzy, he raises his head to stare at the mirror to find tears running down his cheeks. 

“Hey, Cas, you okay?” Dean steps inside the room, a sheet wrapped around his middle, a frown creasing his brow. He catches Castiel’s eye in the mirror, and he does a double take. “Shit, are you crying?”

Castiel drops his head, tries to deny it, tries to say something that will make Dean go away, but all that comes out is a broken sob. His knees go weak, and it’s only because Dean rushes into the room and catches him that he doesn’t collapse. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Dean murmurs against Castiel’s temple as he pulls him close and wraps him in a tight hug. “It’s okay, I'm here.” 

Arms snaking around Dean’s shoulders, Castiel melts against him and lets go. He sobs against Dean’s neck, all the suppressed grief and loneliness of the past year rushing out of him. The tears spill down his face, salty and unstoppable as the walls he has carefully constructed around him collapse in one single moment of despair. He breaks down and Dean holds him through it, rocks him gently, sweet nothings promised into his hair until the waves of pain ease off, like the tide pulling back, leaving him raw and exposed and most of all exhausted. 

When he feels somewhat under control again, he emerges from the bear hug Dean has him in to find they're sitting on the floor, the bed sheet wrapped around both their shoulders, feet tangled. 

Dean doesn't let him pull away completely, keeping an arm around Castiel's shoulder, while the other comes up to cup his jaw in a gesture far too intimate for what Castiel can handle right now. "Feeling better?"

"Not really," Castiel tells him honestly. He knows he's tired though, and that's the only reason he lets himself press his cheek into Dean's palm searching for comfort. 

Dean chews on his lips, searching Castiel's face. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

"You sure? Because I—"

"Dean," Castiel cuts him off with a sigh. "This is not about you. And it's not about us sleeping together either. There are some… some things I still need to deal with emotionally, but what we did last night, I don't regret it. So please, don’t worry about that."

Something like hope lights up behind Dean's eyes, illuminating him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Castiel says softly. He brings his palm over Dean's hand on his face, thumb tracing circles over the knuckles, and he tries to give Dean a weak smile. "I'm sorry I woke you up. And I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for. Whatever it is that's eating you up, I'm sure we'll find a way to deal with it."

_Together._

Dean doesn't say it, but Castiel hears it loud and clear in the way Dean pulls him in to rest their foreheads together.

"Dean, I—"

"You don't have to explain anything to me if you don't want to, Cas," Dean says. "We can just sit here until you feel better, or we can go back to bed."

"I really want a smoke," Castiel confesses and that earns him an amused huff.

"I'm not sure where we'll find cigarettes in the middle of the night. But we can try tomorrow. How does that sound?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Alright, it's settled. And what do you want to do now? I don't mind staying here, but it is kind of uncomfortable so I'd rather get us some pillows to sit on."

"Let's just go back to bed," Castiel says. 

Dean nods and releases Castiel, who misses Dean’s body warmth immediately but feels too vulnerable already to ask him to come back. He lets Dean pull him back to his legs instead and lead him out of the bathroom.

Castiel drops into the bed closest to him, crawling under the covers to watch as Dean hovers indecisively at the foot of the bed, eyes flicking between Castiel and Dean's own empty bed. Too tired for words, Castiel throws the sheet back in invitation. When Dean lies next to him, he snuggles up to him, not too proud to admit at least to himself that tonight he needs the comfort. With Dean's steady heartbeat under his ear, he drifts off.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel keeps his head low and avoids making eye contact with any of the passers-by. Just because they are a few hours away from Santa Fe it doesn’t mean he feels safe to show his face. He waits patiently in the car for Dean to get back with breakfast from the deli they’ve stopped at. They were up early in the morning to head out to Castiel’s secret lair—as Dean insists on calling it—but they won’t be leaving until Dean has satisfied his appetite. 

Castiel flinches at a tap on the roof of a car, before Dean comes into view, a stupidly handsome grin on his face. “Got you a sandwich.”

Castiel rolls the window down to accept the offered breakfast. He eyes the bag suspiciously. “Is that a ham and cheese?”

Dean reaches inside the car to grab something out of the bag which Castiel hasn’t noticed yet—a pack of filterless Camels. Yes! Cigarettes are a thousand times better than food. He grabs it out of Dean’s hand, their fingers tangling together. 

Dean lets his touch linger for a moment longer than necessary, holding Castiel’s gaze. “This is your favorite, right?”

Ignoring the way his heart flutters in response as if he’s some kind of school girl, Castiel raises an eyebrow at Dean. “You know what brand of cigarettes I like?”

“I know lots of things about you,” Dean says. He pulls himself straight again and jogs back to the drivers side. When he takes his seat behind the wheel, he turns to look at Castiel, and at last notices the disbelief that must be written all over his face. “What? I was following you for a whole month, you think I didn’t learn things about you?”

“Not that I smoke Camels. It’s an unimportant detail,” Castiel says. It’s like he has a beehive inside his chest, and the tiny creatures buzz around, quickly spreading through his entire body. This new perky, flirty side of Dean needs some getting used to. As does the fact that since his moment of weakness last night, Dean seems to have dropped any pretense of boundaries between them. Castiel’s seriously hoping Dean doesn’t think they’ve gone steady.

“All details are important,” Dean answers entirely too serious. A smirk is born at the corner of his lips, and he trails his eyes down Castiel’s body slowly and deliberately. “Well, maybe I had a particular reason to care about details that have to do with _you_.”

Castiel’s swallows past a lump in his throat. He breaks Dean’s insistent and purposeful eye contact to hide his burning cheeks. “Is that why you went digging for my real name?”

“It’s part of the reason,” Dean admits. He takes a bite of his own sandwich before continuing. “I also know you drink your coffee with one sugar and no milk. What else? You… you bite your lip when you come across a hard word on the crossword puzzle. You also chew on your lower lip until it bleeds when you’re nervous. You hate salads with a passion—and I’m right there with you on that, no matter what Sammy says—and, oh, I know, you like cats!”

That last part startles a laugh out of Castiel. “Ah, yes. I wonder what the cat is doing now that I’m not around.”

“I didn’t see him around while we were running for our lives,” Dean says.

Castiel elbows him at the waist, earning himself a surprised yelp—Dean’s ticklish apparently.

“You were passed out when we were running for our lives,” he points out. “The cat’s a ‘she’.” He pauses for a moment. “Her name’s Meg.”

“Meg?” Dean asks, tilting his head curiously. 

“Mmm.” Castiel has always referred to her as only ‘The Cat’ up until now, but he’s thought about this plenty of times before. The name fits. The way her black fur shines under the sun, the way she blinks her eyes at Castiel when he talks to her, a hint of irony to the way she stares at him. Yeah, the name fits like a glove. “Meg was a friend. My mentor. She was the one who recruited me after the war.”

“A woman recruited you?”

“Meg was the best agent I’ve ever met. You wouldn’t think it when you saw her because she looked petite and delicate, but she was a force of nature and could take down men double her size.”

“Was?” Dean asks. “What happened to her?”

“An accident while she was stationed in Berlin. Or at least that’s the official story.” It was a few months before Castiel was sent to the U.S. The memory stings less now, but it’s not gone. Like a scar that never fades, it still bothers him from time to time. He wonders if the same will be true for Inias in a few years. He wonders how awful he is to be using Dean to dull the pain now. 

Dean visibly tries, and fails spectacularly, to keep his expression neutral when he says, “Was she… were you thinking about her last night?”

“No.” Castiel busies himself with lighting his cigarette. “Maybe for a bit, but mainly no.” The first inhale of smoke down his throat feels like a sweet balm on his soul. It curls inside his lungs, burning him from the inside out. God, he needed that. 

“Oh. Well, either way, I’m sorry. My mom died when I was four and I still miss her every day. So, I get it.” 

Dean’s expression is hard to read, but Castiel can almost see a crack behind his carefully crafted mask of calmness. This is not an easy topic for Dean either. And though Castiel was an adult when he lost his mother and not a child, he kind of understands the pain of losing the one person who supported you from the moment you were born. “I’m sorry for your mom, too. It must have been hard.” 

“She was beautiful,” Dean says, eyes becoming unfocused. “And kind. And she baked the best apple pie.” He hums distractedly for a moment, the silence stretching between them. Then he blinks back to the present, and his face softens. “Every time I think of my friends who passed during the war, or my mom, I like to think that they’re in a better place. That they don’t suffer anymore. It’s just us who have to live with the void they left behind, and we have to do our best to move on. It’s what they would have wanted.”

“It’s a nice thought,” Castiel says, voice hoarse. The words sit heavily in his stomach, and he pretends to look outside. The hollow ache between his ribs feels gaping open and bleeding all over again. It's true, Inias would have wanted him to be happy. Castiel just doesn't know how to do that anymore. 

His eyes sting, as he pretends to survey the road for anyone that might look suspicious. While he’s distracted, Dean snatches the pack of cigarettes from his lap, evading Castiel’s attempt to stop him. 

“That’s mine,” Castiel warns, without any real heat in his voice.

Dean winks at him, sticking the butt of a cigarette between his lips and grinning in challenge. “I bought it with my own hard earned money. I’m only letting you borrow it, so try and stay on my good side.”

The mood has changed so fast that Castiel feels dizzy, but he won’t let Dean walk all over him. 

“Oh so now scamming bikers counts as hard work?” he teases right back. He thinks if they were somewhere more private, it'd be the easiest thing in the world to close the distance between them and use his mouth to make Dean shut up. But they aren't. And somehow, kissing Dean in broad daylight feels different than everything they've done so far. It feels too close to something _real_ for Castiel's comfort.

“Anything that brings food to the table counts as hard work,” Dean shoots right back. "So, wanna tell me where we're heading?"

"I'll give you directions," Castiel says, throwing his stub out of the window. "The place we're looking for is only half an hour outside Trinidad."

Work is good to distract him from the unfairly handsome and kind man sitting next to him. Whatever it is that they have, it has an expiration date. It's not good to let himself forget that.

* * *

"Jesus fucking Christ." Dean slams his door shut and rests his hands on his hips as he takes in the abandoned, collapsing factory they've parked in front of. "Please tell me you didn't build this."

Castiel doesn't bother to suppress his eye roll. "I had better things to do on my free weekends."

He starts towards an entrance on the side of the building instead of the main one, and soon Dean hurries to catch up with him. The small door there is easier to open and close than the gigantic heavy one in the front of the building to his experience.

"How did you even find this place?"

"Gossip and old town maps," Castiel says. "I heard it closed down after a fire that killed half the workers. Locals think it's haunted."

The door groans open after a lot of pushing, and the smell of dry rot and dust envelopes him. 

Arms brushing as they squeeze inside, Dean shudders at the sight of the blackened walls and rusted pipes hanging from them . “I’m tempted to believe them.”

“I’ve been here plenty of times, and I can assure you, most of the ghosts are friendly.”

“Haha, very funny,” Dean says, slapping him on the shoulder, and Castiel bites down a smile. 

The part of the factory they are in is where the offices and cafeteria used to be. Now only crumbling walls and debris are left behind. Castiel leads Dean through a hole in the wall and towards the main working area, a two story high room, with destroyed machines taking up most of the floor and tall, thick cement columns that support what's left of the ceiling. 

"What are we looking for?” Dean asks, hands in his pockets, walking ahead to kick a pebble away. 

Castiel makes to follow Dean, but as he steps out in the open, something unfurls right in front him, wraps around his neck and pulls tight. The gasp of surprise dies in his throat, but something must come out, because Dean spins around, hand reaching for his gun.

The rope jerks Castiel up in the air, digging into his skin and cutting off his air supply. He claws at it uselessly, mouth falling open in a scream for help that never makes it out. He kicks his legs out, but he can't find anything to gain some support. He only flails in mid-air, his heartbeat pounding behind his temples in a panic-filled litany of _I need air I need air I need airairairair._ His lungs are burning, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, even as everything starts going dark around the edges.

Gunshots break through the ringing in his ears. Head spinning from the lack of oxygen, Castiel masters the last of his strength and cracks an eye open, searching the room with tears blurring his vision. 

Dean is hiding behind one of the columns, gun at the ready, but someone is firing at him. Bullets hit the column relentlessly, sending waves of dust and rain of broken pieces all around them. There's blood going down Dean's hand, and fear curls along with the panic blasting through Castiel’s nerve endings.

They are going to die. They're both going to die here. Castiel can't breathe, and Dean's bleeding, and someone's attacking them and they're both going to fucking die here.

Dean peeks around the column, and their gazes lock for a second. His mouth moves around a word, something that could just as easily be Castiel's name or a curse. Castiel can't tell, doesn't care, _heneedstobreath!_

Castiel chokes when he tries to swallow. His whole body starts trembling, and he knows the end is near. 

Then Dean darts out from behind the column. He jumps sideways, gun raised, and he fires rapidly. 

The rope snaps, severed by one of Dean's bullets.

Castiel falls. He hits the ground with a groan that is half pain and half relief. The rope comes away easily when he tags at it this time. He inhales in small, ragged gasps, as oxygen fills his lungs once again.

"Cas, take cover!" Dean yells somewhere in the distance just as some of the haziness starts to fade.

There are footsteps running down the stairs, voices, the thundering blast of gunshots being fired closer and closer.

His body moves on instinct. Castiel rolls away and crawls behind a metal counter, where he sags against it. With shaky hands he touches his still stinging throat, feels the raw edges where the rope has cut through the skin. His fingers come away bloody.

Bullets are still flying around the room, so Castiel retrieves his gun, checks the magazine and removes the safety. Holding his breath, he dares to peek over the counter.

Two men are walking towards the column where Dean has probably taken cover behind. They move methodically to approach him, one shooting suppressive fire while the other tries to move around the column to get a clear shot. One of them spots Castiel, yells to his partner in Russian—" _He's over there! Catch him!"—_ as he fires in Castiel's direction.

Heart at his throat, Castiel ducks. The bullets hit high above where his head was, almost like the guy wasn't even aiming for him. He probably wasn't, Castiel realizes, heart still hammering inside his chest. 

That's why they used the rope.

They want him alive. 

Emboldened by this, he jumps up, firing his gun blindly in the general direction he remembers the men being. 

One of them is hit through the shoulder and goes down with a surprised yelp. His partner turns his head towards Castiel, but this is the opening Dean has been waiting for. Two shots is all it takes for the man to fall to the ground, a bullet between his brows.

Castiel emerges from his hiding spot to join Dean above the second man, who is struggling away from them. His gun is on the ground a few feet away, and he twists to reach for it, only for Dean to kick it away.

" _How did you find this place?"_ Castiel asks, ignoring the way Dean raises an eyebrow at the words he probably doesn't understand. " _How?"_ he repeats, stepping on the man's wounded shoulder.

The guy howls in pain. When Castiel lets go he curls over himself, glaring at both of them, teeth grinding.

"I believe he asked you something," Dean says casually, even though Castiel is sure he doesn't speak Russian. 

" _I see you've made new friends, 'comrade'."_ The man spits the last word out like it's an insult. " _I thought you were a wanted man, but I see our information was wrong."_

" _Did you follow us here?"_ Castiel demands, raising his leg in warning of what is to come if the man doesn't reply. Coming across KGB agents out here is unfortunate, but maybe they can spin this to their advantage. It depends on how much torturing the guy can get before he breaks. Hopefully not long enough for more agents to come looking for these two guys when they don't check in.

The man grins wickedly, making Castiel's stomach twist. " _I won't stick around long enough for your friends to come get you. I'll see you on the other side,"_ he says instead of answering Castiel's question. Something cracks inside his mouth, before foam starts coming out. 

" _You fucker!"_ Castiel curses, falling to his knees and manhandling the guy on his side to force him to throw up, even though he knows it's useless. Cyanide works too fast.

The man shakes and twitches and jerks, his body convulsing as the poison works its way through his system. Soon he collapses to the floor, glassy, bloodshot eyes staring at nothing.

Castiel hits his fist against the floor. He can't believe the guy chose death so easily. 

Dean hovers close by. "What the fuck?"

"False tooth containing poison," Castiel explains, dropping the body. He methodically goes through his and his partner's pockets for anything useful while Dean's still staring at the guy who is frozen in an expression of agony. 

Dean swallows audibly. "What did he say?"

"Nothing useful," Castiel sighs. There's nothing they can use on the men, except for their guns and spare magazines. Those he gathers to take with them. "Come on we gotta get rid of the bodies and clean up the blood. If the KGB knows about this place we need to clear all evidence we were here when they come looking again."

Castiel was stupid. He fell right into this trap. He should have checked the area for cars before going in, they should have cleared the building instead of strolling around. They've been lucky so far, and it's only luck and Dean's quick thinking that has saved them yet again. Eventually their luck will run out. Castiel has to get his head in the game before that happens or pay for his foolishness.

Dean helps Castiel hoist the bodies and carry them to one of the offices that still has a working door. They push them both inside a metal cabinet that survived the fire, before locking it. Once the bodies start smelling they'll be easy to find, and they have to be far away from here by then.

"They were Soviets?" Dean asks, as they use the men's jackets to rub the floor clean of the blood. 

"Yes. They were here looking for me," Castiel confirms. “Even worse, they were _waiting_ for me. They knew I’d be coming here.”

Dean pauses, bloody jacket in hand. Castiel can feel the weight of his gaze. “They knew about this place? That you were hiding evidence of your work for the KGB here?”

“Probably. That means that I was being watched even before I made contact with the CIA.”

“How do you know?”

Castiel meets Dean’s gaze straight on. “Because I stopped coming here when I sent that letter.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Wait, so if they knew about this place, then maybe they’ve already destroyed your evidence?”

Castiel’s blood runs cold. Cursing, he abandons his futile attempt to clean and runs to the other side, where cabinets are standing against the wall. Most of them are overflowing with spare parts and equipment the workers used, but inside one of them, Castiel has hidden a small tin case behind all the other useless crap. He reaches inside, the word _pleasepleaseplease_ beating inside his eardrums with his pulse. 

His finger closes around the familiar shape of something metallic, and he pulls it out. He doesn’t dare relax until he opens it to find everything still inside. Then he exhales roughly, a hand pressing over his frantic heartbeat. Luck saved his ass yet again.

Dean comes to join him, peering curiously at the box in Castiel’s hand. “Are those…”

“Hollow nickels,” Castiel nods. “The same ones I used to send back to my contact. I made two copies of the microfilms and kept the spare. I came up here once a month for a year to hide them.”

“Risky,” Dean comments, sliding down to sit next to Castiel. He picks one out of the box holding it at eye level. “Look at that. There’s no difference from a real one. Except maybe for the weight?” he adds, laying it flat on his palm. 

“They are meant to be indistinguishable from real coins. That’s their purpose,” Castiel says. He grabs the nickel out of Dean’s hand and carefully puts it back inside the box before closing it securely. 

“But if they knew you were coming up here, why didn’t anyone stop you before you made contact with the CIA?” Dean asks out of the blue. 

Castiel shakes his head. The same question has been buzzing around his brain for a while now. He can’t come up with an answer no matter how much he tries. One thing is for sure. They’re not safe here. With the evidence in hand, though, they are closer to their goal. 

“We should finish cleaning up and get the hell out of here. More might come here looking,” he says, and Dean easily agrees. 

* * *

A deep frown forms between Dean's brows as he inspects the damage done to Castiel's neck. His hands are gentle and careful while he cleans the wound with water and a small towel they found in the bathroom after they stumbled back to their motel room, bruised and bloody. Dean only has a graze on his shoulder from a stray bullet, but the wound that the rope left on Castiel's neck is deep.

"It'll probably leave a scar," Dean says, mouth twisting. He dips the towel in a basin next to him, the water in there already brown with dirt and blood.

"It's fine," Castiel says, keeping his head tilted back. It stings every time Dean touches him, however softly he presses the towel against the angry, raised cut. "A scar is nothing compared to being taken captive by the KGB."

Green, worry filled eyes flicker up to search Castiel's face. "Are you sure they wanted to take you alive?"

"Fairly sure, yes."

"But why?" Dean asks, finishing cleaning the wound. The towel is discarded in the basin, and he grabs the sheet from the second bed tearing it to long strips. "You're a traitor right? So why not just kill you?"

Castiel allows Dean to use the makeshift bandages to wrap his neck loosely, as he stares at the ceiling. He grinds his teeth against the pain. "They probably wanted to know what I've told the CIA already. What proof I have, who of their spies I have exposed, that kind of stuff."

"Here's something that has been bothering me for a while now," Dean says. "If they knew you were ready to defect, why wait for the night we were about to transfer you to attack?"

"You moved up my transfer because there were suspicions someone was after me, remember? You probably forced their hand."

"I'm just saying, it seems like it's too risky to attack a car full of U.S. Marshals. Especially since they had months between you sending that letter and your transfer."

Castiel doesn't have an answer to that. It doesn’t help that the way Dean works, so cautious and tender, almost affectionate, is completely distracting. No one has touched him like this in a while. Not since Inias.

"Another curious thing," Dean continues, pulling Castiel out of his thoughts. "Whether or not they tried to kill you when they crashed into our car is up for debate but throwing a grenade at us seems pretty intentional. You don't throw a grenade at someone you want alive."

"No, you don't," Castiel has to admit. 

Dean finishes securing the bandages, fingertips brushing along Castiel's jaw as he pulls away, raising goosebumps down Castiel's arms. “It seems to me that whoever attacked us those times wasn’t aligned with the Soviets.”

“Who else could it be?” Castiel asks, hand curling into a fist to stop himself from tracing the skin Dean touched only seconds ago. This is not the time to be weak. 

Dean shakes his head, using the dirty towel to clean the blood off his hands. “The documents you have, what exactly are they?”

“They are blueprints and test results for atomic weapons. Everything the USSR needs to replicate the Manhattan Project essentially.”

“The Manhattan Project was shut down years ago,” Dean frowns. “All production, storage and research of atomic projects is managed by the Atomic Energy Commision now. Unless you’re getting confused with the Armed Forces Special Weapons Project.”

Castiel chuckles. Oh, to be so innocent and gullible. 

“You really think the military was happy to let all atomic weapons go under civilian control? The Manhattan Project was only shut down on paper, and while your precious AEC is busy playing with radioactive iodine, Project Y up in Los Alamos has created a new generation of weapons which are smaller, lighter and far more lethal than anything the world has seen.” 

His eyes fall to the tin box where all the details are hidden in. “Hiroshima is child’s play compared to what this new thermonuclear device can do. I’ve seen photos from an illegal experiment held at an island on the Pacific a couple of years back and it’s… it’s both the most monumental and most terrifying thing I’ve seen, and I wasn’t even there.” He shudders at the memory of the mushroom cloud that was caught on camera. “Only God should have that kind of power.”

Dean openly gapes at him. “Are you seriously suggesting the government has been developing secret weapons? And testing them without anyone finding out?”

“I’m not merely suggesting, I have proof of it,” Castiel says. “Though I’m not sure how involved the government actually is. All the names in my documents have been majors and colonels so far, and all the scientists involved in the project are like ghosts. None of them are associated with any university or other research facility as far as I can tell, and they all have a PO box in Santa Fe listed as their official address.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth in quick suggestion while he tries to stomach what Castiel just told him. He brings a hand to rub at his forehead. All things considered, he’s taking it fairly well, Castiel thinks.

“Then that has to be it,” Dean says, all of a sudden grabbing Castiel from the shoulders and shaking him. “Someone from the military found out you were going to defect and give the CIA proof of the illegal research program up in Los Alamos. They had to stop you before you exposed everything and sent them to jail.”

“You really think that your government won’t just cover everything up the moment they see what the documents I have are?” Castiel asks, a hand on Dean’s chest to push him slightly away. He feels sore all over, and the shaking was only making him worse.

“Dude, this is major news. It can't be covered up when it gets out. When you hand those documents to the CIA you won't only be exposing a secret, dangerous weapon production program, but you'll be _stopping_ it. You'll prevent an atomic war, you'll stop innocent people from dying." Dean's eyes sparkle with awe. "You’ll be a hero.”

Castiel’s stomach twists uncomfortably. “I think you’re overreacting. I’m not nearly as brave and noble as you make me sound. Besides, shutting down Project Y will leave your country defenseless.”

“We’re not defenseless,” Dean says, jutting his jaw out in defiance. “And we certainly don’t need illegal weapons to protect ourselves. The laws are there for a reason you know.”

Castiel lets Dean help him change and put him to bed. Without asking, probably because he already knows the answer, Dean joins him before pressing behind Castiel, an arm wrapped around his stomach to pull him close. Lips brush against the back of Castiel's neck—a mistake probably, but it still sets Castiel's entire body on fire. Dean's heart beats against Castiel's back, familiar and reassuring, as his breathing becomes even and he falls asleep.

It's only Castiel who lies wide awake. He wants to blame the pain, but really it's more than that.

It's how Dean's body is a comforting weight pressed against him. 

It's how Dean has gentle fingers and a kind smile that always soothes him. 

It's how Dean thinks he's a hero, and that couldn't be further from the truth.

It's the crazy instinct to forget all about this mess and run as far away from both the KGB and the CIA as he can. It's knowing that no matter how much he wishes for the opposite, he can't hold onto Dean for longer than the couple of days they have left together. Kisses before falling asleep are not something he can have. They are only a stolen moment and a well guarded secret at best.


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel runs his fingers over the card Dylan gave him at their first meeting, phone pressed between shoulder and ear. He can’t see the car or Dean from the payphone he’s in, but he knows they are just around the corner, and that helps settle his nerves a bit. 

The line connects after a few rings. 

“This is Dylan.”

“Agent, this is Emmanuel Allen,” Castiel says, his grip on the phone becoming slightly tighter.

A pause.

Then: “Emmanuel? My God, you had us worried. Where are you?” 

Dylan sounds calm and collected despite his claim for the opposite. His apathy is not a problem for Castiel, though. The contrary actually. He prefers knowing that the man he’s putting all his trust in is a professional and won’t let his feelings get in the way. 

“I’m somewhere safe for now,” Castiel replies. “I had to lay low for a few days after  _ that _ incident. Apparently I’m wanted for murder these days.”

“So I heard,” Dylan replies. “We're still trying to figure out how your name and details got leaked and how you were linked to those deaths. We're thinking there's a mole among the Marshals."

"You and I had the same thought."

"It's the most logical explanation."

Castiel takes a deep breath. "I want to confirm that our deal still stands."

"As long as you're ready to come to us for protection and hand over all your evidence, of course," Dylan says, not even pretending to think about it. "We'll find a way to clear your name, too. A murder suspect is not exactly the most reliable of informants."

"I have the proof," Castiel says, instinctively brushing his hand over the breast pocket where he keeps the nickels. He scans the road but it remains unsurprisingly empty. The low traffic is why they chose this payphone in the first place.

"Good. Then we'll arrange a meeting as soon as possible. Let me just…" There's the sound of the phone being put down and Dylan walking away. Murmured voices are heard in the distance, before Dylan comes back. “Do you have a pen?”

Castiel does. He notes down the directions Dylan gives him to a secure location in the outskirts of Albuquerque. 

“I’m currently wrapping up another case, but can you make it there in five days?” Dylan asks after Castiel has confirmed he has it all written down.

“I’ll be there by sundown in five days,” Castiel says. 

“Good, I’ll see you there then.”

“Wait.” Castiel’s heartbeat picks up. “De— Winchester, he’s… he’s been with me the whole time. Protecting me. What about him?”

“What about him?” Dylan asks, and Castiel imagines the question is accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

“KGB caught up to us,” he says. “He risked his life to keep me alive so we could retrieve the proof. He’s… he’s a hero.” Castiel swallows past the lump in his throat. “I just want to make sure he’ll get the recognition he deserves for all his hard work.”

“I can assure you that Winchester will get exactly what he deserves,” Dylan tells him, sounding amused. “But Emmanuel, a word of advice? Don’t trust anyone. Remember that we still don’t know who the mole is. Winchester could be helping you only to find the location of the documents.”

“He wasn’t,” Castiel tries to cut him off, only for Dylan to chuckle.

“Ah, Emmanuel. Life as an artist has made you soft. In our line of work there’s no room for feelings.” 

Castiel’s gaze strays towards where the car is hidden behind the buildings down the street. He thinks of waking up in Dean's arms and feeling warm and content. “Right. Of course. I’ll be careful.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Dylan says, sounding satisfied, and then the line goes dead. 

* * *

Castiel feels his shoulders heavy when he goes back to find Dean. Somehow it doesn’t feel like he’s almost at the end of this journey, but rather only at the beginning. When he’s close enough to the car to be able to see inside, he pauses, alarms going off inside his head. 

The car is empty. No sign of Dean.

Castiel runs the last few feet to the car, looking around him the whole time. A few people are walking close by, but no one is paying him any mind.

"Hey! Looking for me?"

Castiel spins around to find Dean grinning like an idiot. He holds up an ice cream for Castiel to take.  Instead of taking it, Castiel huffs annoyed. 

"Don't disappear like that," he says through gritted teeth. "I thought something was wrong."

To his defense, Dean seems genuinely taken aback. Like the thought something could have happened to him is completely outlandish, despite at least two organizations being after them.

"I just thought I'd get you something sweet. To cheer you up." He holds the ice cream up again, though there's nothing cheery in his voice any longer.

Castiel's shoulders sag. Maybe he's overreacting. His talk with Dylan has left him restless and paranoid. 

"Is that vanilla?" Grabbing the ice cream out of Dean's hand, he tries to smile. It probably comes out as a grimace, but Dean perks up nonetheless.

"Yeah, didn't know what else to get you, so I thought I'd go for the safe choice."

"Didn't you stalk me while I was buying ice cream?" Castiel's tongue darts out to lick a long stripe up the cone and catch a drop of melting ice cream. He doesn't miss the way Dean licks his own lips at the sight.

"Honestly, Cas, I don't think I've ever seen you eating ice cream before," he says, distracted.

"For the record," Castiel says, as he watches Dean visibly force his eyes away from Castiel’s mouth, “I like cherry-coconut.”

That startles a laugh out of Dean, who doesn’t even try to hide it. He leans against the car, all long lean lines, looking far more attractive than any human being has a right to. Castiel wonders what it would be like to kiss him without it leading up to anything else, just for the sake of it. Just because he feels like it and because Dean looks good in Castiel's old leather jacket. 

It's a dangerous thought, and even more so because Dean looks like he’s thinking of the exact same thing as Castiel comes to stand by his side. 

“Well, I certainly didn’t have you for a cherry-coconut guy." Dean leans against Castiel, their shoulders brushing together. Any closer and it'll stop being appropriate for out in the open.

“I like the cherry pieces inside,” Castiel says, turning to face the street, cheeks heating.

Dean sticks his tongue out, face twisting into a sour expression as he pulls straight again, putting a safe distance between them. “That’s disgusting. No one likes the cherry pieces.”

“Then why does every store carry cherry-coconut ice-cream?” Castiel shoots back, enjoying this far too much. Today is their last day together, so he thinks he’s allowed. Besides, he really likes the way Dean’s eyes crease at the corners when he laughs. 

“Must be some kind of Soviet torture. I bet it’s your spies that run all those ice cream shops,” Dean says, pulling the Camels out of his pocket to stick a cigarette between his lips. 

“I assure you,” Castiel says, watching Dean light his cigarette from the corner of his eye. “Our torture techniques are a well-guarded secret, and they  _ work _ .”

That, predictably, earns him an elbow at the side. “I guess that explains how you got me to open up to you so easily, huh?”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow. “Are you saying that I’m torturing you?”

“Only sometimes.”

“Only sometimes,” Castiel repeats, humming. “Good to know.”

* * *

Castiel takes the few minutes that the drive back to the motel lasts to fill Dean in on the details of his talk with Dylan, as well as explain to him where their meeting will happen—conveniently, he forgets to say Dean’s name was mentioned. 

“So we have five full days to make it to that ‘ _ safe location’ _ as Dylan calls it?” Dean asks over the music playing on the radio.

“Pretty much,” Castiel confirms. “Which means we should leave on Thursday morning at the latest."

Dean's lips stretch into a wolfish grin, not even bothering to hide how his eyes linger on Castiel's lips. "I think I know how we can spend our free time."

Heat curls deep inside Castiel’s stomach, anticipation filling the car thick enough to taste. He swallows thickly. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Dean’s eyes fall to the bandages wrapped around Castiel’s neck and soften. “We should clean your wound and check your bandages first. We don’t want you getting an infection.”

“I didn’t get an infection in the trenches, I doubt I’ll get one now.”

“We can’t be too careful.” Dean pulls into the parking lot of the motel but doesn’t kill the engine. A nervous smile plays at his lips, and when he speaks, it’s barely audible over the music. “After everything we’ve been through, it’s kind of lame to lose you to something like that, right?”

It should have been a stupid, teasing comment. But it isn’t. Dean means it. Dean cares. Actually cares. 

Castiel’s breath catches at his throat as the tension in the car skyrockets. For the hundredth time that day, he looks at Dean’s lips and this time not even knowing that they are out in public seems to be able to stop him. Maybe a part of him even enjoys the thrill as they both lean in, achingly close to touching, Castiel’s heart skipping a beat inside his chest, Dean’s breath shaky against his face.

“ _ —my brother, Dean Winchester. We still have no news about him—” _

Dean whips his head around to gape at the radio so fast Castiel almost stumbles forward.

“ _ —more than a week that I’m asking—begging—anyone that knows something to please make contact with me, Sam Winchester, or your local police department. Any piece of information is important—” _

“Sammy,” Dean whispers on a choked exhale. 

While they were too distracted to notice, the song ended, and the station is now broadcasting an emergency message: Sam Winchester asking for information on his missing brother. The missing brother Castiel was about to kiss. 

“ _ And if Emmanuel Allen can hear me right now. Please. Return my brother. He is a good man. Loved by his family and friends. He doesn’t deserve this.” _

It’s Castiel’s time to choke. He turns the radio off, and silence settles heavy over them. 

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth. “That’s… Shit, I didn’t even think what Sam must be going through all this time.”

“He’s worried,” Castiel says very unhelpfully.

“Of course he’s worried, he's my brother. Fuck.” Hitting the wheel, Dean curses repeatedly. Then he sinks back into his seat, looking exhausted and pale. “Fuck, this is horrible. I'm a horrible person. A horrible brother. I should have called him at the very least."

"Making contact with him while we were on the run could have put him in danger," Castiel points out, and Dean's eyes land on him again.

"This’ll all be over in less than a week, though, right?”

Castiel feels like his mouth is filled with sand. Dean needs a reassurance Castiel can't give him yet. The meeting with Dylan is still too far away, and lots of things can happen until then.  Castiel has been selfish. He's lost sight of his goal. He needs to put some distance between them. 

Opening the door and stepping out, he says, “You should go back to your family,” without looking back.

“Well, yeah, I will,” Dean says, hurrying to follow. "After we meet with Dylan and I make sure you're in safe hands. Sammy can wait a few more days, right?"

"You should go now," Castiel clarifies, addressing the empty room he steps into, the words like a sharp dagger that pierces his own side.

Dean is hot on his heels, a hand on his elbow to gently spin him around. "You think I'm gonna go? Abandon you? Cas, I'll stay as long as you need me to."

"That's what I'm saying. I don't need you." His skin is burning where Dean is touching him, his whole body aching to pull him closer, kiss him, hold him, do anything he can to forget about the real world. But it's not how things work. "I'm not a damsel in distress, Dean. I can take care of myself."

Dean frowns, his hold tightening ever so slightly. "I know you can. What I'm saying is you don't have to. You're giving up so much already by doing this, it's my—"

"I'm not your responsibility!" Castiel jerks out of Dean's hold. He can't do this anymore. He can't deal with the way Dean looks at him; like he's someone good and worthy of Dean's respect. "I'm not a hero. I'm not the self-sacrificing saint you think I am. This whole image you have of me giving everything up to save the world only exists in your head!”

He shakes his head, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. He couldn’t stop his next words even if he tried. “Everything is a lie, everything I told you, and everything you believe about me. I couldn’t care less about a new war or atomic experiments. I’d be perfectly happy going on with my life, feeding my home country all the information they need to replicate your new, secret bomb design, if they hadn’t killed Inias. Everything I’ve done and everything I still need to do is for a single man. A man my own country killed for daring to be different, daring to be like me— _ loving _ me. This is not a heroic act. This is petty revenge.”

Dean steps forward, hands raised in a soothing gesture. He looks surprisingly calm and tender. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says with a small, sad smile, and a lightbulb goes off in the back of Castiel's mind. Pity. No matter how hard Dean tries to hide it, it's pity Castiel sees written all over Dean’s face, and it makes Castiel's fists clench at his sides. 

“I’m sorry, okay?” Dean says, still trying to calm him down. “I’m sorry for your loss. Inias—Inias you said, right?—he was obviously important to you. You have every right to want revenge. It’s okay. It doesn't change the way I see you." He cocks his head to the side, pursing his lips, as if he's re-thinking something. "Actually, it's kind of romantic when you put it like this."

Castiel scoffs, something close to a hysterical sob. "You don't understand. You  _ can't _ understand."

At that Dean's face hardens. "I don't understand? I haven't done anything  _ but _ try to understand. To give you space, let you do things your way. All I do is tip-toe around you and try to keep up with your mood swings, and what do I get? Another one of your tantrums, that's what I get."

"Well, what did you expect? A medal?"

"A thank you would have been nice," Dean shouts. "Or you know, maybe if you could stop taking it all out on me, that'd be great, too." He rubs a hand over his mouth, huffing. "You know, every time I think I get you to lower your walls, every time I think that maybe this—" he gestures between them, making Castiel's blood turn to ice even as hot fury rises to color his cheeks—"maybe it's not in my head, you find an excuse to push me away."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe it  _ is _ in your head?" Castiel snaps, harsher than he intended, but it's out of his control now. Dean’s eyes are dark with threat, but Castiel ignores all the warning signs, keeps going, pushing at him to see at what point he’ll snap too. “That maybe I’m just a selfish bastard who wants to watch the world burn and you were just convenient to keep around? That maybe your service is no longer needed so you can finally fuck off back to Kansas and stop bothering me, because  _ this _ —” Castiel doesn’t even bother to explain what he means, he only spits the word out, ignoring the way Dean’s fist is trembling, “—this means  _ nothing. _ ”

And that seems to be the limit of Dean’s patience. 

He darts forward, grabbing Castiel from the shirt and shoving him roughly against the nearest wall. 

Castiel’s breath is knocked out of his lungs with the force of the impact, his vision blurring around the edges. He fumbles with his hands, trying to make Dean release him to no avail. Dean’s not done. He holds Castiel by the shirt, forcing him to stand almost on his toes, how close he is to beating Castiel written into every tense line of muscle that rises and falls with his breathing. 

“You asshole,” he hisses into the barely there empty space between them. “You fucking coward. You’re doing it again! You’re only pushing me away because you’re too emotionally stunted to admit that you actually fucking care. You can hide behind your lies and anger all you want but it doesn't change the truth."

When Dean kisses him it feels like an attack. Like proving a point. 

Teeth clack together as Castiel gasps, eyes wide with surprise, and Dean takes the opportunity to push his tongue past Castiel’s lips. He kisses Castiel to breathlessness, hands fisted in the front of his shirt, trapping him against the wall.

Castiel hates himself for wanting to kiss back. For kissing back. For his eyes fluttering closed and his hands roaming over Dean’s body, pulling him closer until there’s no part of them that’s not touching. For craving so much more than he’s ever going to get. 

Dean jerks away just as suddenly as he pinned Castiel to the wall. His breathing is ragged, clothes rumpled, hair a mess, lips pink and swollen. "Tell me," he demands, his rough voice making Castiel go weak in the knees, "that you felt nothing. That this meant nothing to you."

Castiel stares at him. Tries to regain his composure.

"Tell me!" Dean yells.

Castiel pushes away from the wall. "What does it even matter? This is the end of the line, in case you haven't noticed, Dean. Whatever happened between us was already over the moment I picked that phone up to call Dylan. I know it, you know it, and if you don't you're a naive idiot."

"It doesn't have to be," Dean says. Argues. "We can make it work. After you've testified and you've been given a new identity we could—"

"We can't!" Castiel wants to hit him. Slap him. Shake him. Anything to make Dean realize how absurd everything he's saying is.

"Not with that attitude," Dean huffs, pushing a hand through his hair. "You won't even give me a chance to say my piece here."

"Dean. There's nothing for us beyond the next five days. There's nothing for me."

Dean groans with frustration. "After you testify you'll be free to live your life as an American citizen. You could go anywhere you want, do whatever you want,  _ be  _ whoever you want—" Castiel shakes his head; it's not that Dean doesn't understand, it's that he  _ refuses _ to understand. "—if there's even a slight chance that we can make this work, why won't you give it a go? What even are your plans for after this whole thing is over?"

Castiel blinks. There's no easy answer. It's something he hasn't thought about. It's something he has consciously avoided thinking about. 

"I can't hide forever," he says. Whispers. His deepest fear finally in the open.

Dean's eyes widen with realization. "You—you think you will—"

"It's only a matter of time. The moment I've testified, I simultaneously stop being useful and put a huge target on my back."

Dean shakes his head. "No," he says, his mouth a firm line.

"I've come to terms with my fate, Dean," Castiel says, far more calmly than he feels. "You should too."

Dean’s gaze travels from Castiel to the empty room around them and back, as if he’s searching for another solution. Whether he finds it or not, all the fight slips off his shoulders. He’s careful when he approaches Castiel again. 

This time he kisses Castiel like he’s asking for permission. 

Castiel doesn’t have any more arguments left inside him. He feels hollow and exposed. Like a jacket turned inside out. 

Now, with the truth out, his most vulnerable side laid on the table for Dean to see and touch, he lets go. He allows Dean to take him to bed, to map out his body with his lips and tongue and fingertips until they're both gasping against each other's mouths. 

This time, when they curl together under the covers to sleep and Dean pulls him close, it feels different. This time Castiel can't deny that he wishes things were different.

* * *

The drive to the safe house is mostly a silent one. Even the radio volume is turned to low. 

They don't have much to say, Castiel figures, between dozing off and stealing glances at Dean's unreadable expression. The last five days they spent together feel almost like a dream now. Dean is a generous lover, he has discovered. Generous and tireless and—in the safety of their room—shameless about how much and how often he wanted Castiel. Castiel could get used to this. Which was a scary enough thought, even without all the stress of their upcoming meeting with Dylan. But then five days were gone, and they had to move on.

Just as the sun is sinking low in the sky, painting the world in crimson red and warm orange, they see the safe house appear in the distance. For all intents and purposes it looks like an old, abandoned farmhouse. 

Castiel swallows audibly. 

This is the end of the road. Finally.

Abruptly, Dean pulls to the side of the road and kills the engine. He turns to face Castiel, mouth set with determination.

"This is bullshit," he says. "Maybe you're happy to part ways like this, but I'm not, okay?"

"Dean, we talked about this," Castiel sighs. He doesn't understand why Dean keeps pushing. They had a good time together up until now, they had five full days to spend together relatively carefree. Why do they have to destroy everything with their selfish wishes?

"You talked about this, now it's my turn to plead my case." Dean reaches to cup Castiel's face and gently guide him to gaze back at him. "I think that we can make this work. There has to be a way."

Castiel opens his mouth to argue, but Dean keeps on going, not giving him the chance to make so much as a sound.

"I know you started this mission ready to die—and I admire you more than you know for your dedication to Inias—but you don't  _ have _ to die. We can protect you okay? I'll make sure that you get a new name, new papers, a home. You can be an artist or a math teacher or whatever the fuck you want to do, and you'll be safe doing it because my team and I will make sure that no one can find evidence of your old life." He licks his lips nervously, and Castiel can feel the slight tremble of Dean's hands when he nuzzles into his palm. "You can have a life here. A  _ good _ life. And hell, I’d love to be part of that, but if you’d rather not I’ll still do anything I can so you won’t have to check over your shoulder constantly. But I need you to  _ want  _ to live, okay?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, choking up despite all the promises he made himself not to get attached. “Thank you. It’s not that I don’t want you in my life, it’s that what you’re asking of me is impossible.” He chews on his bottom lip. There’s no easy way to say this. “There is no future for us, okay? You said it yourself, you could lose your job, your family, your life. Is this really worth risking everything?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "I get that what happened to Inias hurt you, but I think it's worth giving this a try. We can keep it a secret, my co-workers never have to know."

"What about your brother?"

Dean's hand falls away. A muscle tics under his jaw. "Sammy already knows. About me. About what I like."

"And he just… doesn't care?" Castiel asks, cocking his head to the side, trying to understand. Dean is like a never-ending puzzle. Just when Castiel thinks he has him figured out, Dean does something that completely blindsides him.

Like now.

Dean shakes his head. "Well he… he needed some time to get used to the idea. We spent a few months not talking to each other. Then he was drafted and sent to Europe and when he came back, I guess he figured life is short and I'm not going to change so he might as well accept it."

Castiel chuckles bitterly. "If only everyone thought like your brother." 

Inias' sister was like that. Castiel thought she'd be the only one to ever accept them. Maybe he can find allies in this strange country, too.

"Yeah, Sammy is special," Dean says softly. "Always was smarter than everyone else. But my point is, Sammy would understand. About us. If that's what you're worried about."

Castiel huffs. "You make everything sound so easy."

"It  _ can _ be that easy."

It's tempting. Very tempting. 

Castiel meets Dean's hopeful gaze. He'd never thought he could fall in love again after Inias but looking at Dean… he's halfway there already. 

Oh, why the hell not? Castiel deserves something good for a change.

He reaches across the seat to take Dean's hand in his own and squeeze. "It's worth a shot."

Dean smiles so bright that his whole face is practically glowing. It's a nice view, even nicer because Castiel knows he's the reason for it.

* * *

When they park in front of the seemingly abandoned farmhouse, Castiel’s hands are shaking with more than just nerves. If everything goes according to plan, he could have a shot at a new life, at happiness. Dean bumps his shoulder against Castiel as he leads the way up the stairs to the porch, and Castiel has to bite down a smile. They’re not here to play.

The front door opens as they approach, and Dylan steps out, followed by four men in suits too heavy for the heat of New Mexico. Castiel imagines being a little uncomfortable is a small price to pay for being able to hide a gun under your jacket. He’s certainly used this method several times, today included. The gun tucked into his waistband is a comforting weight against his back. 

“Mr. Allen, it’s nice to see you again,” Dylan says, hands held loosely in front of him. He stands a few steps above them, looming over them, so his hat doesn’t hide his expression—a mix of excitement and  _ took you long enough. _ He probably has better things to do. Then again, considering all the papers Castiel is about to hand over, he can’t imagine what could be more important. 

Dylan nods in Dean’s direction. “I’m glad to see both of you are alive and well. You had us worried for a minute there.”

“I’m sure,” Dean comments neutrally. He gestures at Castiel with a shrug. “Things would have been easier if he wasn’t a wanted criminal.”

“Ah, yes. That must have been inconvenient.” Dylan doesn’t move. He just watches them, his men hovering close behind. After a stretch of silence, he adds, “We’ll take care of it of course. As long as you’ve held up your end of the deal.”

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Castiel asks. 

An eyebrow disappears under the brim of Dylan’s hat. “And the proof?”

“It’s somewhere safe. I’ll tell you how to retrieve it after I’m in a real safe house, this time well-guarded,” Castiel says, his heart beating nervously against his rib cage. He stops himself from patting the pocket of his jacket. 

The line of Dylan’s shoulders tenses up. “You don’t have it? You’ve played this game before, Emmanuel. Your little games are the reason we’re here, right now.”

“I’m alive  _ because _ of this game,” Castiel points out, and Dean nods in his peripheral vision. “So I want to be sure that I won’t be killed or sent straight back to the USSR the moment I hand those documents to you.”

“Right, of course.” Dylan checks the men behind his shoulder. None of them so much as twitch a muscle, but Dylan’s expression shifts to something resolved, almost satisfied. It sends a chill down Castiel’s spine. “I’m sorry to say that I’m tired of your games.”

As if on cue, all four men draw their guns. 

Next to Castiel, Dean’s hand moves for his own, but he’s not fast enough. 

The gunshot cracks through the air, louder than thunder, and the bullet lodges itself in Dean’s thigh. 

Dean’s knees give out under him. He collapses with a surprised yelp. 

Castiel’s blood runs cold, the noise of the shot still reverberating in his ears. 

“Fucking hell—” Dean curses, a hand over his bloody leg. 

Castiel twists for him, drops to his knees to help him, but before he can touch him the warning sound of a gun cocking stops him. 

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Dylan orders as nonchalant as ever. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Castiel burns with righteous rage even as his blood turns to ice inside his veins. Is this a set up? It has to be a set up. Then that means…

“Like I said, I’m tired of playing games,” Dylan says, checking for dirt under his nails. “I need those documents and any copies of them you might have. So hand them over now, please.”

“I don’t have them with me,” Castiel protests, hands shaking at his sides. He’s only a few inches away from Dean, who is still cursing under his breath even as he presses a hand over his wound trying to stop the bleeding, and yet Castiel can’t do anything to help him. 

Dylan’s eyes move from Castiel to Dean and then back. He gestures at one of his men. “Search them. The car too.” 

One of the men climbs down the stairs and manhandles them on their stomach. He does a thorough job of patting them down and emptying their pockets, retrieving their guns in the process. 

Castiel’s every instinct screams at him to struggle, to fight back, to do something. He is, however, still very conscious of three guns pointed at him and more importantly,  _ Dean _ , so he forces himself to stay still during this bordering on humiliating search. 

"Fucking asshole," Dean says under his breath but he obediently remains on the ground while the man gropes him all over. Save for a grimace when the guy runs his hands over his injured leg, his face remains unreadable.

“They’re clear,” the man announces, slipping the nickels back into Castiel’s pocket before moving to repeat the same process with the car. 

Castiel suppresses a breath of relief. It worked.

A few minutes later, which Castiel spends belly down on the ground, holding Dean’s gaze and trying to convey that it’s okay, it’s going to be okay, Castiel will find a way to save their asses, the man closes the trunk and says, “The car is clear too.”

Dylan huffs. “So you were telling the truth.”

“Of course I was,” Castiel spits out, twisting to glare back at him. Maybe he was desperate for help but he’s not stupid. He was never going to hand over his only guarantee of safety easily, and he was clearly right to think like that. The nickels shift inside his pocket, and his brain works overtime to find a way out of this.

“Very well.” Dylan nods solemnly as he retrieves his own gun. He holds it up aiming at Castiel for a second. Then he moves so that he’s pointing at Dean instead. “Either you tell me where everything is or I put more bullets in him.”

“He’s not telling you anything, you dick,” Dean grunts, red faced and breathing hard. 

Dylan doesn’t even flinch as he shoots him again, this time through the shoulder. 

Dean cries out, twisting against the pain, pulling his legs towards his body as if that’s going to be of any help, and Castiel is ready to break already. He can’t do it. He won’t let Dean get hurt, be tortured and killed because he was stupid enough to trust the wrong person. 

“Stop, stop,” he pleads, crawling towards Dean. The guns move to follow him but no one bothers to tell him to stay still. He doubts he would even if they did. With shaky hands he rolls Dean onto his back, pushing the jacket and torn shirt away to check the damage on his shoulder first, then on his thigh. Both clean, in and out. They’re bleeding a lot, and they definitely hurt a lot, but they’re not fatal. Not yet. 

Dean bites on his lower lip, a muffled groan of agony escaping him despite his best efforts, and Castiel feels like he's coming apart at the seams. There has to be a way.

“Clock’s ticking, Emmanuel,” Dylan says, tapping a finger on his wrist. “Next bullet will take out something more important. How do we feel about a finger?”

“No, wait! Wait,” Castiel pleads as he removes his jacket to press it over Dean’s shoulder. Dean has tears running down his cheeks, and Castiel has blood under his fingernails and his head is spinning. “Wait. Please.”

He has to find a way to protect Dean. He has to save him. He owes him that much. He needs Dean to survive this and go back to his brother. Castiel went into this knowing he was a dead man anyway. It was foolishly optimistic to think otherwise. 

“Wait,” he whispers. “I— I’ll tell you where I’ve hidden it. I’ll take you there. But you have to let him go. You have to let Dean go.”

Something like amusement flashes across Dylan’s eyes. The corner of his lips twitches upward. “And why would I do that?"

“Because if you don’t, I’ll take that secret to my grave.”

“That’s not really inconvenient to me,” Dylan points out. “See, I’m not explicitly interested in your documents. I mean sure, it’d be useful to uncover all the spies up in Los Alamos, but we can do it ourselves, too, given enough time.”

“You knew about the secret experiments,” Castiel breathes out. He’s not even surprised at this point. Dean thought it was a military man trying to track them down. Well, as it turns out his guess was pretty close to the truth. It’s as Castiel feared all along. Some people already knew. And they’d do anything to stop him from ruining their plan. Pretend to help him. Even organize an ambush on the van that was transferring him to a safe house. They probably thought he had the microfilms on him when he was being moved. 

It was a good plan, Castiel has to admit, even though he hates to. Even if he’d been killed without handing over the evidence, they still won. The truth about what’s going on up in Los Alamos and the new atomic weapon developed would remain a well-kept secret.

Except there’s one thing they didn’t account for. 

Dean.

Dean who saved Castiel and helped him hide for this long. Dean who gave Castiel hope again. Dean who made Castiel want to live again.

Too bad this is the end of the road. 


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel inhales deeply. Dean’s whole-body tremors are vibrating up Castiel’s arm, counting down to when it’ll be too late to save him. Whatever he’s going to do, he’s gotta do it fast. 

“What makes you think that the documents won’t be found by someone else?” Castiel asks through gritted teeth. “You think I’m stupid enough to not have a back-up plan? If enough time passes without me retrieving those microfilms they’ll be sent to the biggest newspapers in the country. I doubt that’s good for you.”

Here’s to hoping they won’t call out his bluff.

Dylan’s brows draw together, lips pressing into a thin line. It’s only for a split second, but it’s the crack to his facade that Castiel has been looking for. Something like hope lights up inside him. The microfilms Castiel has can expose the entirety of the illegal experiments and end the careers of everyone involved. He’s not sure how involved Dylan is, but probably deep enough that once an investigation starts he won’t come out the other side unscathed. It’s Dylan’s one weakness, and Castiel has to take advantage of it.

Dean’s eyes find Castiel’s, holding his gaze with a silent question behind all the panic and pain. 

Castiel wants more than anything to comfort him, but he hopes Dean will understand he’s doing it for him. He’s doing it  _ because  _ of him. If there’s any chance one of them makes it out of this alive, then he’ll make sure it’s Dean. Instead of an answer, he presses the jacket more firmly over Dean’s wound.

"That would cause trouble," Dylan mutters finally, low enough that at first Castiel doubts he heard correctly. But then Dylan gestures with his head at the car, and one of his lackeys lowers his gun. "Help Winchester inside his car, then secure Mr. Allen. He'll show us where he's hidden the documents. Oh," he adds as an afterthought; the lackey stops to wait for the rest of the sentence, while Castiel holds his breath. "And find a shovel or something to take with us. We're going to need it."

"What the hell, Cas," Dean protests even as Castiel tries to help him stand up. Blood flows freely from both wounds despite the jacket still pressed against his shoulder and color is draining fast from his face. "I'm not leaving you."

"Dean, thank you for all you've done for me, but your duty was to deliver me to the CIA safe. And I believe you did that," Castiel says and tries to put everything he can't tell him into his expression so that maybe Dean will understand. Maybe he'll know why this is necessary. 

If Dean can read between the lines then he doesn't show it. He only jerks away from the lackey's grabby hands that try to steer him towards the car. "I'm not leaving you."

“Dean you have to go,” Castiel says, pushing him towards the car. He can feel Dylan’s eyes on them, and he can guess what’s going on inside his head. The only reason he’s letting Dean go is because he knows the nearest hospital is an hour away, and that’s if Dean doesn’t faint from blood loss before he makes it there. Which becomes more and more likely the more Dean refuses to listen to reason. 

Keeping his back to Dylan and hoping the slight change to his expression will only be perceptible to Dean, Castiel says, "I'm taking them to the factory. Get out of here now." His hands turn to fists where they are holding the jacket against Dean’s shoulder.

"Really, this is a win-win situation for you, Winchester," Dylan calls. "You get to live and you can rest assured that we  _ will _ stop any kind of information leaks happening up in Los Alamos."

Dean has eyes only for Castiel, though a muscle tics under his jaw while Dylan is speaking. At last, just as Castiel is starting to panic thinking Dean didn't get what Castiel told him, he nods. 

Castiel's shoulders sag with relief. Thank God. Dean understood. 

"Alright," Dean says softly, searching Castiel's face. He looks like he wants to say more, but with an audience any kind of goodbye is impossible between them. Castiel knows that as well as Dean does.

Which is why Castiel lets his bloody jacket slip from him as Dean pulls away taking it with him. He takes a deep breath, watching as Dean climbs into the car, trying to commit everything to memory. The way freckles are scattered over Dean’s nose. The way his fingers close around a steering wheel with confidence. The way his eyelashes turn bronze-tipped under the last light of the day. 

“Come on, Mr. Allen,” Dylan says as Dean’s car disappears into the distance. “We have places to be.”

* * *

It’s five hours back to Trinidad. Five hours Castiel spends in the back of a truck not unlike the one that was supposed to take him to Chicago that night Dean woke him up. This time he is sitting between two men, who make no effort to put their guns away. 

Castiel wants to laugh. As if he’d try to escape. He’s in here because he wants to buy Dean as much time as possible. Trying anything funny would defeat his purpose and put Dean in greater danger than he already is. 

_ Dean. _

Castiel prays with all the energy in his heart that he’s safe. That he got to Albuquerque before it was too late, that he managed to get help, that someone patched him up and stopped the bleeding, that he knows what he has to do. He prays that his sacrifice is enough to give Dean a chance both to survive and to finish what Castiel started. He hasn’t turned to God for comfort in a long while, but if his prayer means anything, anything at all, this is the only thing he'll ask for.

The truck jolts and rattles as the road under them turns to dirt, and Castiel knows they’re getting closer. It’s well past midnight by now, and the starlight just barely makes it into the truck, catching at the sharp edge of the shovel travelling with them. Castiel stares at it, wondering if they’ll force him to dig his own grave. 

As the truck rolls to a slow stop, Castiel holds his breath. He faces the door thrown open with his back straight and jumps out without waiting for anyone to shove him. He’s already accepted his fate. He leads the way into the abandoned factory, feeling like a lamb walking inside the slaughterhouse. 

The part of the floor where the KGB agents bled out is still a little darker than the rest, despite Castiel and Dean’s best efforts to cover it, though it’s probably noticeable only if one knows to look for it. Maybe he should show Dylan where they hid the bodies. Then again maybe not. He’d rather not be forced to share. 

Walking to the middle of the tall room, Dylan twists around, inspecting their surroundings. “Impressive,” he comments, and he almost sounds like he means it. “I’d never think to look in a place like this.”

Hands pushed into his pockets, Castiel shrugs. “It’s why I chose it.”

“Right.” Dylan checks his wrist watch, one of his men moving closer to help him with his flashlight. “We’ve already wasted too much time. Shows us where you keep the documents.”

“They used to be in the cabinet over there,” Castiel tells him, gesturing with his head.

One of the men foolishly starts towards that direction. Dylan blocks him, mouth twisting in what is probably an attempt to hide his impatience.

“Used to?”

“Dean and I retrieved them a couple of days ago. They’re somewhere safe now.”

“Oh, Emmanuel. You never learn.” Dropping his head with an exasperated sigh and looking genuinely disappointed, Dylan retrieves his gun. The sound of it cocking echoes around the room as his four men mimic him. 

Well, Castiel thinks, there’s no going back now. Hopefully they won't torture him for long.

"You know, here's what I don't get." Dylan waves his gun around casually, pursing his lips in deep thought. "Why do you fight me? If you hand those documents over you'll get what you want—I'll make sure the whole spy ring in New Mexico is destroyed. I'm not the enemy; in a weird way, I'm your friend."

"This is not just about the spy ring and the KGB."  _ Not anymore.  _ "Those experiments your military is conducting are illegal, and they need to be stopped."

Dylan snaps the fingers of his free hand, a smirk playing at his lips. "Ah, of course. You think you'll become some kind of hero by exposing everything. Of course."

"It's not about becoming a hero," Castiel argues, having grown so tired of this word already that he won’t mind if he never hears it again. “It’s about what’s right.”

At that, Dylan laughs. Startled at first, then full-bodied and tear-eyed. “Ah, that was a good one. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that, you’re funny, I’ll give you that. My God, I never expected something like that to come out of a KGB agent’s mouth,” Dylan says, wiping at his eyes. “‘What’s right.’ Did you hear that, guys?”

The men shuffle on their feet, clearly unsure of what the expected reaction is, though a couple of them crack a hesitant smile. 

Castiel rolls his shoulders back and waits. 

“Soldiers, Mr. Allen, or in your case agents,” Dylan says, mouth twisting with distaste, like even inferring to Castiel’s allegiance is disgusting, “don’t do what’s right. They do as they are told.”

“I’m not very good at following orders,” Castiel tells him, not a hint of emotion in his voice. He feels strangely empty. It’s not that he’s not scared, just that he doesn’t care anymore. He knows what’s coming, knows he can’t stop it, more importantly, knows that it  _ has _ to happen this way to buy Dean enough time, so he’s decided he’s going to face Dylan head on. 

Of all the ways he could have died in the past few days, this seems like the best one so far. 

“You won’t make this easy, will you?” Dylan asks. 

Castiel shrugs again.

Dylan shrugs, too. “Very well. He’s all yours, boys. Make sure he can still talk when you’re finished with him.”

The men look more than happy to follow their orders. Their guns are shoved back into their holsters, as the four of them stalk up to him. 

To his credit, Castiel doesn’t back up. He stands his ground. He doesn’t even flinch when the first one raises his fist. The breath is knocked out of him when the guy punches him, and though Castiel is prepared for it, he still staggers back. He tries to remain standing, to keep the cries of pain from escaping his quivering lips, but it's four guys against him. Four guys that hit him relentlessly, kicking, punching, shoving and slamming him against every hard surface they can find.

Dylan waits for an answer, and Castiel's not about to give it.

So he falls. And he surrenders to his nearing end.

* * *

His whole body is radiating with pain. There's no part of him that feels like it can move anymore. Castiel is barely conscious as it is.

Most of his fingers are broken. 

His nose is broken too. 

As is his right knee.

One of his eyes is swollen shut. 

There's probably blood running down his face.

Even swallowing sends waves of agony rippling through his muscles.

Truth be told, he's surprised he's still breathing.

But he's alive. Dylan wants him alive.

Castiel blinks up at him, tries to make out his expression through the haziness that is threatening to pull him under. 

Dylan looks bored.

"I'll ask you one more time. Where are the documents?"

Castiel keeps his mouth shut. He's become really good at this in the last… hours? How long have they been beating him? It's hard to tell. Seconds feel like years. 

Dylan sighs. “You know, I can do this all night. Can you? I can take all the pain away right now. You just have to give me a location.”

At that, Castiel’s lips stretch into a grimace that was supposed to be a smile but half-way there turned into a groan of pain. Still, he says, “Fuck you.”

Dylan backhands him across the face so hard that Castiel feels his brain rattle inside his skull. His vision goes dark around the edges, sweet oblivion  _ finally _ pulling him under.

But Dylan’s not done with him.

Ice cold water is thrown on him, sending his whole nervous system into alert. Where the fuck did they even get cold water out here? And more importantly when will this torture end?

A ragged, weak gasp escapes his lips, and Dylan takes advantage of the moment to shove a gun between his lips. 

“Do you want to reconsider?”

Even if his mouth wasn’t full, answering would require strength Castiel doesn't have right now, but he does put all the fight he has left in him into a single glare. 

Dylan seems to get the message.

Lightning fast, the gun leaves his mouth. The thunderous crack of it going off is followed by complete stillness and silence.

For a moment Castiel thinks Dylan is playing with him.

Then the pain hits him in waves, crushes him, spreads hot and sharp across his gut, where blood blossoms and pools and stains his clothes as it flows from the tiny hole close to his belly button.

"Next I'll shoot your dick," Dylan warns over the ringing in Castiel's ears. "Don't be stupid, you're only prolonging your suffering. Do I look like I don't know what's going on here? Huh? Do you think I haven't sent someone after Winchester already? He's probably caught by now, and your silence won't protect him or those documents. Whether out of you or out of him, I'll get what I'm looking for."

Shaking and trembling, Castiel turns his face, stares straight back at Dylan. "Fuck. You," he manages to say through gritted teeth.

Dylan clicks his tongue. "Still resisting. I see. Well, then—"

The world explodes in a cacophony of heat and light.

When Castiel manages to open his eyes again, Dylan and his men have been thrown back, away from the gaping hole that has replaced the factory's old door. They try to scramble up, just as men rush inside guns raised, orders barked at them—' _ stay low'  _ and _ 'keep your hands where I can see them'  _ and _ 'drop your guns'. _

The strange men bypass him—probably writing him off as dead or maybe focusing instead on Dylan, who is not about to surrender without a fight. Gunfire starts from the other side of the factory as Dylan retreats, screams himself hoarse for his men to help him escape. 

They are outnumbered. Dylan’s men fall under the gunfire of the intruders, hitting the ground like their strings have been cut, and Dylan still refuses to go down, raises his gun against the men closing in on them— 

“Cas!”

Someone comes crashing to their knees next to Castiel. Careful hands brush hair sticky with blood away from his forehead and turn him so he’s gazing into brilliant green eyes.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean breathes, his expression a mixture of relief and worry. 

“Dean,” Castiel manages to say, feeling blood bubble up his throat. 

“Hey, are you hurt? Let me see.” Dean’s hands leave Castiel’s face, and he immediately misses the warmth of them; a whine escapes his lips, quickly turning to a whimper as Dean presses over the gunshot wound. “Shit. Fitzgerald! Fitzgerald, get your ass over here, you’re needed!” Dean's face moves out of view only to come back a few seconds later, pale and drawn.

Castiel wants to touch it.

He wants to reach for Dean and cup his face, comfort him like Dean has done so many times for Castiel is the past few days, but he can't. His hands refuse to obey him. 

As if reading his mind, Dean grabs his hand and squeezes. "Cas, stay with me. You're in good hands now, you hear me?"

Castiel tries to nod.

Dean is here, and he looks as beautiful as ever, so beautiful and gentle and kind, and his eyes are so green, and he looks at Castiel in that way that always makes his stomach quiver, and his hands are always so careful when he touches him and Dean is here, really here. He came back, he is alive and he came for Castiel and God he looks like an angel…

"Cas! Cas, no, come on, don't give up on me now. Hang in there, okay? Hang in there for me. Fitzgerald, do something!"

"I’m doing everything I can!"

"Then do better!"

Castiel is floating. 

He is beyond pain.

He is out of this broken body or close enough that what happens to it anymore doesn't matter.

Time slows down. 

Sounds fade away.

Darkness spills around the edges of his vision, consuming everything.

The only thing Castiel can see is Dean.

The only thing he wants to feel is the hand still squeezing his desperately.

Ah, he thinks with his last stuttering breaths. He was wrong. 

_ This _ is the best way to die.

* * *

The world comes back to him in bits and pieces.

A hint of light here.

The sound of a voice there.

But most of all it’s pain. 

It’s his body feeling heavy and dismantled, and agony searing through it with every labored inhale of air he tries to take.

_ Oh.  _

So he’s still alive then. Unless beyond death lies nothing but agony, in which case, he kind of deserves it, but also he’s kind of disappointed.

“Hey, look! He’s waking up.”

“What?”

“Allen, it’s Allen. He’s waking up.”

“Let me through.”

“Now, just wait for a moment—”

“I said let me through.”

Castiel’s eyes flutter open to a hazy blur moving near him. He blinks a few times, fighting against the fog still covering his brain until the blur comes slowly into focus.

“Cas, are you okay?”

_ Dean _ .

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe now. Do you know where you are?”

_ No. _

Dean stares down at him, and Castiel realizes no word made it out of his mouth. Probably because his mouth feels like it’s filled with sand. 

He blinks again, and more of the blurs loitering around the room become clearer. A couple of them wear long lab coats—doctors. The others are in dark suits, similar to the one Dean is wearing. Castiel has never seen them before. 

One of the doctors, the one hovering right behind Dean, comes closer. "Mr. Allen, can you talk?"

This time Castiel forces his lips to move. "Yes." Just that small effort leaves his throat raw and stinging.

The doctor nods and produces a handful of papers where he quickly notes something down. "Do you know where you are?"

Castiel starts shaking his head. Then he stops and looks at the sterilized, bare room he's in. "Hospital," he croaks. Then, "Water."

"Well, you heard the man. Get him some goddamn water," Dean says, though his shoulders slump, tension easing out of the lines of his body.

The second doctor is at Castiel's side immediately, and though he's careful when he helps him sit a little straighter, Castiel's entire body still burns with pain at the slightest touch. But then a cup of water is pushed against his lips, and the sweet relief of it helps a little.

"Mr. Allen, you were brought in about a week ago," the first doctor tells him, before quickly going over a very long list of injuries.

"A week?" Castiel cuts him off.

The doctor looks at him from over the rim of his glasses. "A week, yes. You spent most of it in a coma."

"But you're awake now," Dean hurries to say. "And out of the deep water, so there's nothing to worry about."

"Mr. Winchester," the doctor sighs. "This is why I insisted that I speak to my patient alone.”

“Your ‘patient’ is under my protection,” Dean shoots back. 

“Winchester,” one of his colleagues warns—an older man with a greying beard. “We talked about this—”

Castiel tries his hardest to focus on what is being said around him, but his eyelids feel heavy already. Unable to stop himself, he surrenders to the darkness again.

* * *

The next time Castiel opens his eyes, it’s just him and Dean in the room.

He turns his head to the side, his entire body protesting even that small of a movement, just as Dean reaches to stop him.

“Hey, take it easy. You’re still recovering.”

“I’m alive,” Castiel croaks, letting Dean smooth the blankets over his sore body. 

“Yeah, you are. Even though you had us worried for a moment there.”

“ _ You _ are alive.”

At that Dean’s face splits into a wide grin. “It’ll take much more than two stupid bullets to kill me.” He pats his hand on the offending shoulder as if to underline his words, though Castiel doesn’t miss the way he flinches a little at the contact. For all his bravado and stupid cockiness, Dean is still human after all. 

Castiel shakes his head. “You came for me. You came back.”

“Of course I did,” Dean tells him, looking almost offended at the idea that he could have done anything else. 

“And you came with backup? Who were those men?”

Dean clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. “I— uh, look I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but remember that day you called Dylan to arrange a meeting?”

Castiel nods weakly. “You got me ice cream.”

Dean’s eyes light up at the memory, and Castiel’s heart skips a beat. “I did. But I also took the time to contact my boss, Bobby Singer. He was with me when you woke up earlier, do you remember him?”

“Vaguely,” Castiel answers, trying to recall the faces of the two men that were with Dean. The older one must have been Singer, though Castiel can't recall much beyond him being somewhat sour looking. Even this small amount of effort brings the beginnings of a throbbing headache behind his temple, and he groans.

Dean, probably misunderstanding the reason for Castiel’s discomfort, moves to close the curtains and block out the bright sunlight, limping a bit as he goes. Admittedly, the darkness does help a little. 

“Yeah, well I called him then—and I know you said you didn't want to because you didn't trust anyone, but Bobby is different! He is not only my boss, he's also family and I'd trust him with my life—"

"Dean," Castiel tries, voice too weak to stop the onslaught of words.

"—and in the end it's good that I did because we'd both be dead right now if I hadn't—"

"Dean!" Castiel masters all his strength to reach, grab Dean's hand and give it a squeeze. "I'm not mad. You were right, and I was wrong. There's no need for your 'I told you so'."

Dean huffs, squeezing back. "Well I did tell you so." He runs his thumb over Castiel's knuckles, eyes dropping to the floor. "I told him where we were so he came out to watch us from afar. He followed us all the way to the safehouse with a team of his most trusted men. It's good that he did because I'd have passed out before reaching Albuquerque."

"They should have taken you to a hospital."

"They wanted to," Dean says and blushes. "But I told them there was no way they were coming to rescue you without me—and anyway they wouldn't have found the factory on their own—so they were forced to patch me up in the back of the car."

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Someone patched you up in the back of a car?"

"Hey, Garth was an Army medic you know," Dean says defensively. "Just because he's a Marshal now doesn't mean he's forgotten his way around gun wounds. He actually kept you alive long enough to get you here."

"I should thank him then."

" _ I  _ should thank him," Dean says with a gentle smile. He checks over his shoulder, making sure no one is in ear shot; truthfully Castiel doesn't have the strength to care. He almost died and Dean is as breathtaking as ever so he'll take any chance he has to touch and look. "I was so scared we wouldn't make it on time."

"You're an idiot. You had the microfilms, you should have protected them instead of rescuing me."

"I wasn't going to let you sacrifice yourself," Dean argues, his hold on Castiel becoming almost painful. "You promised you'd try, that  _ we  _ would try, and you can't keep that promise if you're dead."

Castiel drops his eyes to their entwined fingers. "I suppose I can't," he says softly. He still thinks Dean is an idiot for taking that risk. But he's glad he did. "And the microfilms?"

"They are in safe hands. The originals will remain with Bobby, and copies will be sent to the proper people to be reviewed," Dean promises him. "By the way, I've been put on medical leave so I'm not in charge of your case anymore, Garth will be. He's a nice guy, you'll like him. And I trust him to look after you until you're done with all the trials and testimonies and arrests."

Castiel nods. He can't say he's surprised, though he'll miss spending time with Dean. It'll be much harder to meet with a babysitter following his every step.

"And after the trials are over?"

Dean sighs. "After that we're going to get you a new name, a new life away from all the excitement. Hell, you can come to Kansas. Nothing exciting ever happens there."

“You live in Kansas,” Castiel says, the end of his sentence rising at the last moment to turn his sentence into a question.

Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes, and no. I go where my work takes me. I’ll be lucky to spend a month back home a year.”

“Kansas has a lot of… fields?” Castiel guesses.

Dean nods his head to the side. “Pretty much.”

“I was thinking of something closer to the beach.”

Dean rolls his eyes, a fond smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Jesus, if you’re well enough to make demands then you’re definitely out of the woods.”

Castiel pouts. “You said anywhere I like.”

“Fine, if you want a beach, I’ll find you something close to a beach.”

Satisfied, Castiel hums. He pulls Dean closer by the hand. They are still alone, and Dean’s back hides Castiel from the door, so he feels safe enough to bring Dean’s hand to his lips and press soft kisses along the knuckles. 

Dean startles at first, probably because Castiel hasn’t been one for affectionate gestures so far, but then he sighs, letting him. It’s far too intimate for where they are, but who knows when they’ll find some alone time again.

“And us?” Castiel breathes against the freckles scattered over Dean’s knuckles.

Dean smiles softly, cupping Castiel’s cheek for the briefest of moments. “We’ll figure something out.”


	9. Epilogue

It takes them a year. A year of lawyers and cold interrogation rooms. A year of questions and a year of answers. A year of hiding and a year of worrying. A year where the whole country holds its breath while everyone important is under investigation and then prosecuted for illegal nuclear experiments. But then Castiel’s part in the hunt for the other spies is over, and he’s a free man. He also has a new shiny ID, and he’s officially an American citizen. 

It takes them another year of different motels, different cities, trains that follow the path Dean's work sets out for him and lonely trains back home. A year of secret meetings, of stolen moments, of  _ want  _ and  _ need  _ and  _ I missed you  _ between kisses and caresses.

But they make it.

It takes them two years of getting to know each other without any threats of death or imprisonment, and they fall in love. 

Castiel suspects he never stood a chance. Dean was always meant to come into his life like a hurricane and turn everything upside down. He was meant to meet Castiel and teach him how to live again.

Sometimes it hurts. It hurts because he misses Dean when he's away, and he still misses Inias, and he still misses Meg, and sometimes he misses them so much that he barely makes it out of bed. But he does. 

He has a garden now that needs tending, and he has a real job that sometimes frustrates him but it’s honest work and these days he can’t ask for more. These days he paints just because he feels like it. He paints flowers and bees and children playing in the park near his house. He paints things that make him happy and sometimes he paints things he knows will make Dean laugh if he shows them to him. 

He has a life that is all his own. 

And so, two years after Castiel woke up in the hospital with a team of U.S. Marshals standing over him, he finds himself knee deep in dirt and mud as he battles with weeds. The sun beats down upon his back, making his skin feel hot and tight. 

_ Fifteen, _ he counts in his head as he pulls the roots out of the ground.

_ Sixteen. _

His undershirt—the only thing he's wearing from the waist up—clings to his back uncomfortably. 

_ Seventeen. _

Three more, and he will take a break for some water.

_ Eighteen _ .

A bead of sweat slides down his forehead to hang from the tip of his nose.

_ Nineteen— _

"Excuse me!"

Castiel startles. He pulls the weed with more force than he intended and stumbles back, falling ungracefully on his ass. Pain radiates up his spine, but he pays no mind to it. Instead, he twists around to peer at the man who stands behind Castiel’s white picket fence, biting down a smile. 

“Dean,” Castiel breathes as he stands up again. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Dean says, visibly fighting back a chuckle. “I just moved to the area, you know, and I’m still looking for a place to stay. Maybe you know someone who could rent me a room?”

Dean raises an eyebrow, and Castiel’s insides burst with warmth. 

“I may know someone,” Castiel says hoarsely. He almost pinches himself to make sure this isn’t a dream. Dean is here. Dean’s  _ moving _ here! “But I’ll have to see a reference letter first.”

A hand over his chest like he’s offended, Dean says, “I don’t think I have any of those, unless you can wait for me to send a letter to my brother. I’m sure he’ll be happy to vouch for me. But until then I can promise you that I’m an excellent roommate.”

“I bet you are.”

“Yeah, I cook awesome breakfast and always keep my room clean.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Can’t ask for more than that, can I?”

“There’s only a catch.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow as Dean bends to pick up something from the pavement to show Castiel—a pet carrier. From inside, a cat blinks lazily at him, and Castiel’s breath catches at his throat.

“Is that…”

“Meg,” Dean confirms, puffing out his chest with pride. “Took me a few days to find her. A Mrs. Wilson had been feeding her, though her husband was more than happy to sell her to me. I thought you might like the company.”

Castiel crosses the small distance between them to pull the cat out of the carrier. She easily goes over to him, climbing up his arm to settle on his shoulder. Her purring vibrates against his neck when he scratches the top of her head. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. He stares at Dean cocking his head to the side. “And you… did you mean it? About the room?”

“I did. I got transferred in the area, and I thought it’d be nice.” Dean drops his eyes to his shoes. “If you’ll have me.”

“Of course,” Castiel says without hesitation. "You should move in as soon as you can."

A grin splits Dean's face, making his eyes crease at the corners, and God, Castiel missed this. And he can't wait to have this for as long as he can. For as long as Dean will have him.

"I arrived last night. I still have everything in my car. It's parked in the motel I'm staying, about ten minutes from here."

"We should go and get it then," Castiel tells him.

"Eager much?" Dean teases.

"I don't want to wait any longer," Castiel says, and Dean laughs again.

If you asked him two years ago if this was possible, he'd have laughed. There were so many hurdles, so many barricades set out by everyone around them, that just the thought of overcoming them was inconceivable. A lot of them are still there of course, as substantial as ever, but standing with Dean bathed in warm sunlight, the possibility of something more, something permanent, stretching tantalizing before them, it’s easier to face them. 

The thought brings a shy smile to his face as he opens the front door of the house and lets Dean inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end! I hope you enjoyed reading this. If you made it to the end let me know what your favorite scene was in the comments. I always love seeing what you guys have to say. [ And here is a rebloggable link for this fic if you want to share it ](https://kitmistry.tumblr.com/post/626436460169543680/stumble-and-fall-written-for) <3
> 
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> Thank you for reading!


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